


Cuthenin - True Bow

by HASA_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Drama, War of the Ring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2008-03-05
Packaged: 2018-03-22 21:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 70,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3743588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HASA_Archivist/pseuds/HASA_Archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wounded and sick at heart, Legolas arrives at Imladris as Thranduil's messenger on the eve of the Council of Elrond. He meets Glorfindel and the two form a unique bond. Through the rites of an ancient religion, Glorfindel becomes Legolas' Soul Keeper and saves him from certain fading due to grief. Love blossoms between the unlikely couple as the great events of the ring War are about to unfold. Features Legolas as Thranduil's love child rather than a legitimate heir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Part One: Friend or Foe

**Author's Note:**

> Note from the HASA Transition Team: This story was originally archived at [HASA](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Henneth_Ann%C3%BBn_Story_Archive), which closed in February 2015. To preserve the archive, we began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2015. We posted announcements about the move, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact The HASA Transition Team using the e-mail address on the [HASA collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hasa/profile).

_thoughts_  
(elvish translation)  
This chapter Beta'd by **digdigil.**

**Minui Peth: Mellon o Coth? (Part One: Friend or Foe?)**  
  
"They know."  
  
"Aye. I expected as much. Once the hobbit made it over the ford, the Dark Lord trained his attention on any others travelling to Rivendell."  
  
"His spies are everywhere. The Wraiths may be temporarily scattered but innumerable are the lesser evils capable of thwarting us. There have been several raids on neighbouring villages; the people flee to the west for safety. Yet Orcs are patrolling just outside our borders, attacking as soon as Anor (the sun) retreats."  
   
"Do what you can. Those drawn here must complete their journey. Alert me of all visitors immediately."  
   
"Aye. Ir telitha Elladan ar Elrohir?" (When are Elrohir and Elladan expected?)  
   
"Na Ithil Bant. Nae, si cúron." (At Full Moon. Alas, now it is Crescent.)  
   
"Avgosto; incen gwanûn hebir gell an telien." (Do not worry; my guess is the twins are just enjoying the sport.)  
   
"Útelien, Glorfindel," (It is hardly a game, Glorfindel.) the Lord of Imladris admonished.  
   
"Na tí no ten," (It is to them.) countered the saviour of Eärendil with a wry  
smile.  
  
The ancients conversed quietly on the balcony overlooking a peaceful grove of chestnut trees, keeping their voices low for the benefit of the recovering hobbit resting in the room behind them. Leaning on the rail in weary malaise, Gandalf gave a short laugh and nodded, but his mood was anything but jolly. The two elves looked in his direction and he shrugged.  
  
"I am glad they are out there. Glorfindel is right; the numbers of Orcs are increasing. We need someone to discourage their boldness," his grave words raised an indignant grunt from the Balrog Slayer.  
  
"My warriors are not sitting around on their hands, Peniphant! (Old One) We have strengthened our patrols accordingly and intercepted several raids already. Show some faith in Imladris' forces."  
  
"Of course, I meant no slight. It is just imperative for everyone so appointed to reach this destination."  
  
"Valar willing, they shall," intoned Elrond and returned to the sick room to check on the patient.  
  
Glorfindel joined the wizard at his gloomy watch, gazing down into the peaceful grounds. The late afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees and cast flickering shadows on the lawn. The orchard was empty of elves and the valley was silent, the tension of the Lord of the Hidden Vale infecting everyone so that even the Bruinen's booming voice was sombre and apprehensive. Glorfindel sighed and straightened up.  
  
"I must prepare; it is an hour before annûn (sunset) and I wish to be well away before dark." He gave the Istar a brief nod and strode back inside, passing through the convalescing hobbit's chamber, offering Elrond but a quick wave of his hand in salute, knowing his comment had been heard.  
  
The venerable soldier left the pleasing elegance of the Last Homely House through the kitchens, stopping to gather the provisions prepared for him and exchange a warm word of thanks with the able cooks before crossing the broad expanse of the formal gardens to reach the more utilitarian section of the Noldo Lord's compound. Glorfindel stepped up his pace as he entered the barracks courtyard, noting with satisfaction that his troops were busy preparing for the night's surveillance.  
  
He was spotted and hailed and the noble captain returned the salutation. No instruction was required of him for these were seasoned warriors, hand-picked from among the best archers and swordsmen of Imladris. Each knew what was expected and what awaited them in the drear of the starless gloom, for all had seen more than an Age of life and none had reached their sum of years unscathed by combat with the enemy. A short whistle sounded and they mounted up, forming three troops of twelve cavalry grouped in ranks of four. Without a word spoken, the patrols left the barracks, the thunderous rumble of the horses' hooves providing the only accompaniment to their departure.  
  
At the ford Glorfindel saluted the border guards and there his forces divided, each troop taking a different sector of the terrain chosen by lots. The Balrog Slayer's company had drawn the grim expanse of the North Road, a desolate and little used thoroughfare connecting the western lands of Eriador to the wild regions east of the Misty Mountains. Yet this was one of the most likely areas to run into Orcs, for the vile things had virtually made the road through the peaks impassable.  
  
The Hithaeglir was replete with dens and caves packed with the disgusting mutations and ever were they on watch for any traveller foolish enough to attempt the pass. From these infested caverns poured the influx of Sauron's minions into the gentler, more civilised lands bordering Imladris. Glorfindel fully anticipated a skirmish at the very least.  
  
An hour past midnight, the elven warriors encountered a large troop of the detestable vermin in a small wooded area just within the foothills of the towering mountains, no more than five leagues from the Hidden Vale. It was obvious the foul creatures had set up an ambush, using the scattered outcroppings and the cover of the trees to hide their presence. It was equally apparent that their plan had failed, for every single one of the Orcs was dead. That they had tried to flee was clear as well.  
  
What the Noldorin soldiers could not figure out, however, was the nature of the opposing army. It was an intriguing puzzle, for no tracks or signs of the warriors were evident, and if not for the finely crafted elven arrows deeply penetrating each corpse, the Imladrians would have suspected some sort of magic.  
  
Glorfindel collected one of the feathered bolts and raised his brows as an expression of surprise suffused his features. Though he had never held one like it in his hands before, he could deduce the origin of the archer by process of elimination. The design of the shafts and fletching used in Lothlorien were known to him, as were those of Imladris and Mithlond. The weapon was definitely not of human make and there was only one other realm of elves in Arda. The attack had been thwarted by Wood Elves from Thranduil's kingdom in Mirkwood. The intrepid warrior fingered the deadly point as he counted the number of bodies; fifty Orcs lay rotting under the moon.  
  
"It would seem we have allies to the east after all," he said softly. "Split into groups of four and seek this company of silvan elves, for I would thank them for their service."  
  
Through the remaining hours of Ithil's reign they searched, but no sign of the woodland warriors could they discover. At last the faint light of dawn's approach touched the sky and the soldiers resumed ranks and headed home, no wiser regarding the identities of their unseen benefactors.  
  
When the Balrog Slayer's group reached the ford, the second and third companies of the night patrol were already gathered together. Many had dismounted and rested on the grassy banks to enjoy the show, for the guards and the warriors were arguing with, firing off questions to, and making jokes at the expense of a lone person within their midst. A solitary Wood Elf stood beside his horse, ringed by the elite forces of Elrond's realm, and stoically endured the interrogation, repeating the same answer no matter how many different ways the Noldorin elves chose to ask him to state his business.  
  
"I am a messenger from Thranduil's Realm over the Mountains. I must speak with Lord Elrond."  
  
"Athedreinyn (Border Crossers) are not granted audience with our Lord. Hand over your dispatch and we shall see it delivered," one of the guards demanded.  
  
"I cannot, for I am charged to render the news personally."  
  
"Why, is it memorised?" a warrior jibed and raised a few chuckles from his peers.  
  
"Excuse me?" the messenger was genuinely baffled by this query and that elicited even more laughter. He gazed around at the encircling soldiers, bewildered.  
  
"I asked if you have the news memorised. Do you not understand Sindarin well? Your accent is rather heavy," the warrior expounded to further tittering amusement among his fellows.  
  
"I understand your speech but not your meaning. I am commanded by my Lord to give a complete reckoning of the situation; memorisation is not necessary for I was involved in the events."  
  
"Oh, that explains it then. I thought perhaps the message was committed to memory due to your Lord's inability to write it down." With the cutting point finally delivered the assembled troops erupted with mirthful mockery and congratulated their comrade on his fine joke.  
  
The Wood Elf merely stood silent and still, features impassive, running his fingers through the glossy white mane of the mare by his side, waiting for them to resume their questioning.  
  
The arrival of Glorfindel's company forestalled this, however. The Balrog Slayer dismounted and the soldiers quelled their merriment, parting to let him through to the unexpected visitor. Couriers from the Woodland Realm seldom came to Imladris for the Mirkwood elves were distrustful of the Noldorin folk across the mountains. He assessed the archer as he approached, noting with a smirk that the Wood Elf was doing the same to him. What he saw was as he expected: the Elf was small in stature, slight in build, young in years, and fair of face. So it was among the Athedrainyn, for speed was their sole defence and thus only the lightest in weight were chosen for this career. Usually, their fleet steeds were not fast enough to forestall the inevitable for very long. Thranduil's messengers seldom saw their five hundredth begetting day.  
  
 _This one is not so far from his Coll o Gweth, (Coming of Age) I would wager my finest mare._ And the thought made Glorfindel's face turn grim in disapproval, for to his mind it was wrong to set one so young upon the road to Mandos. Indeed, he could not recall ever meeting or hearing of such a youngling venturing beyond the cover of the trees. He weighed the Wood Elf's worth anew. _More expendable or more trustworthy?_ he wondered.  
  
In addition to callowness, the archer was too pale, too thin, his cloak was wrapped around him as if he felt chilled, and he was absolutely filthy, coated in mud and dirt and dried blood. If he had a sword the cape obscured it but his bow was in his left hand and the quiver upon his back was empty. His hair was probably the same flaxen shade as his mare's mane underneath all the grime and he wore it braided back in battle style. Glorfindel decided he was evaluating a very different calibre of Mirkwood messenger than those he had seen in Lorien.  
  
"Mae Govannen," (Well Met) he said with a slight smile. "I am pleased to welcome you. Go now and alert your captain that your company may enter the Hidden Vale under the Blessings of the Star Kindler. Our Lord will be eager to express gratitude for the service your warriors have done for Imladris and the surrounding lands."  
  
"I humbly thank you for such a gracious greeting, my Lord," said the woodland warrior with a deep bow, hand over his heart. "Yet I have no captain nor company to summon. My comrades were killed; I am the only survivor of this mission."  
  
That this was true was evident in the depth of sorrow the lone archer's voice betrayed and the Balrog Slayer stared into eyes shadowed in misery and swimming with confusion and pain. Glorfindel comprehended instantly that the youthful soldier had seen his first mortal combat on this journey and witnessed the death of friends and kin for the first time. The ancient warrior was saddened to bear witness to this loss of innocence and could not remove his gaze from the limitless azure orbs. His brow wrinkled; something in that woeful stare bespoke a wisdom beyond the dearth of years this youth had lived, and he wondered at it.  
  
"I grieve for your loss," he finally managed to murmur the polite phrase as one of his lieutenants coughed to get his attention. "And yet I am bewildered. There were no elves among the bodies, of that we made certain. What has become of your troop?"  
  
Now it was the Wood Elf's forehead that creased in confusion as he tried to comprehend the noble Lord's meaning. He wondered for a second if this was not the prelude to another graceless slander but immediately discarded the notion. The warrior was not like the others, and even they would not find the death of his fellows something to ridicule. Mayhap he truly did not comprehend their dialect after all.  
  
"Forgive me, Lord, but your question puzzles me. I did not travel hence among a company of warriors. I am one of four sent on an errand of vital importance from Lord Thranduil. We were waylaid in the mountain pass and there my friends perished."  
  
"Four? Nay, that cannot be right," the words were said not so much with disbelief as shocked denial.  
  
"I assure you it is the truth. No more could be spared for this journey though its priority is of the highest order. My people are beset by divers enemies from the citadel of Dol Guldur and our troops are needed to guard our borders."  
  
"But we came upon a horde of Orcs amid the foothills, all of them felled by arrows such as are used in the Woodland Realm. Is it possible there is another entourage from your lands, unknown to you?"  
  
"Ah, I understand you now. Those Orcs. The ambush beneath the boxwood trees and the stones." He paused and drew a weary breath. "That filth was not the same offal that attacked my group in the mountains; however, I consider their origin to be of the same source. I killed them with as much relish as if they had been the ones that took my friends' lives." The messenger was clearly relieved to have the confusion cleared and smiled for the first time, a very grim and bitter smile.  
  
"What nonsense!" One of the border guards scoffed. "Are you so lacking in propriety that you dare lie to the face of Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower?"  
  
"I should thrash you for it, whelp, and teach you some manners!" a second warrior chimed in.  
  
"I do not lie! I demand you retract that slur at once or face my blade!" the silvan archer cast back his cloak and unsheathed a long, gory hunting knife as he assumed a defensive posture. He spared a second's gawking at the tall, golden Vanya before him, yet would not allow his awe over the presence of so renowned a legend to stifle his outrage over the Noldor's calumnies.  
  
"Hold!" shouted Glorfindel, uplifting his palm toward the visitor. "Be calm and lower your weapon; the apology you shall have at once." His voice was low and measured but though his keen eyes sought the young Elf's the archer would not remove his ravaged glare from the Noldo who had insulted his honour. "Ithil'wath, (Moonshadow) beg pardon of our guest immediately, for you have shamed the Lord of the Valley by such inexcusable defamation."  
  
"My Lord?" the elven warrior stared in shock at his commander. "You heard his words, did you not? He seeks to make a name for himself by claiming the valourous deeds of others!"  
  
"Vile son of kinslayers, defend yourself!" hissed the Wood Elf and advanced immediately, fully prepared to vindicate his reputation even if it meant drawing the pompous soldier's blood.  
  
Glorfindel repositioned himself between them as the rest of the Noldor fell back and gave the pair a wide clearance, though two Imladrian archers drew aim upon the interloper's heart. Then the former Lord of Gondolin did something that quite shocked his troops. He took up his place beside the bedraggled Mirkwood messenger and drew his sword as well.  
  
"I will not countenance such low words from among elves that claim to serve the Vale of the Last Homely House!" he thundered, so angry he could scarcely contain his desire to strip the offender of his commission on the spot. "Rest assured the loyalty of those who would disregard my orders will be thoroughly investigated. Choose now what your demeanour shall be: gratitude for the Elf who rid our lands of the stink of Sauron's vermin or haughty disdain for a stranger far from his own lands. No reason have we to doubt this messenger or subject him to ridicule, while every hint of evidence supports his account of the night's work."  
  
At these harsh words the warriors were troubled, for they had no wish to stand against their noble captain. The archers lowered their bows and were the first to approach, bowing low before the silvan and the Balrog Slayer.  
  
"Gohenach nin, (Forgive me)" each murmured. "My Lord, we acted on instinct when we saw his knife glint in Anor's rays."  
  
"Aye, yet you should not have been so hasty in your judgement," complained Glorfindel. He turned slightly to view his colleague and could not suppress an amused grin at the blank expression of confused amazement plastered over the archer's features. "What say you to their apology, laegel gand?" (bold green-elf)  
  
The silvan warrior relaxed somewhat, but only allowed his vision to flicker for an instant in the speaker's direction, keeping his attention centred on the one that had so baldly besmirched him. He was both disappointed and disgusted, for this treatment was like nothing he had been told to expect from the Noldor elves of Imladris. The disdain and the rude jokes, these he had prepared his heart to endure, but such an outright insult could only be perceived as an open challenge and invitation to conflict. Yet, there was the matter of the dispatch with which he had been entrusted and this personal injury must accept lesser notice. A short sigh left his lungs and he gave a nod equally brief.  
  
"It is acceptable, yet these two are not truly the guilty ones. Be that as it may, for the sake of their swift repentance and in hopes of a truce between us, I will hold no grudge upon this land or its people, but upon Ithil'wath," and here he uplifted the mithril blade and pointed it straight at the warrior's heart, "shall remain a burden that may be relieved only by answering my challenge or rendering an oath of subservience."  
  
"What say you?" sputtered the livid warrior. Ithil'wath sought to stride forth and meet the stinging rebuke at once but his fellows grasped his arms and held him still. "Subservience to such as you, Wood Elf? I would sooner kneel to a human!"  
  
"You are dismissed, soldier," growled Glorfindel. "Return to the barracks and await your summoning before Lord Elrond. You have made your choice and now shall you earn its merits." So saying the mighty Vanya sheathed his broadsword with evident wrath but barely contained and turned his back upon the disgraced Elf. With another bow he appealed to his humble guest.  
  
"I offer my own regrets for this deplorable demonstration of prejudice and bigotry. I had hoped for better from my troops, yet it seems even I cannot be free of error, for I chose this lot myself and thus ultimately must answer for their deeds, be they honourable or despicable."  
  
Ithil'wath glowered in shocked outrage and hastened to his stallion, mounting up and splashing across the ford, two of his comrades at his heels to mark his adherence to the captain's order. Amid the noisy slosh of the horses' watery departure the remaining warriors mounted as well, awaiting their leader's command to return to the city. Yet stringent though they were in controlling it, not a few were evidently displeased to have their comrade berated for the likes of so common a being, by their estimation, that the men of Gondor seemed noble by comparison.  
  
"I would not have you carry that burden, Lord, but the ways of the silvans are mayhap divergent from the customs of the Noldor. In as much as I may relieve it, consider that no grievance to Lord Elrond shall be made against yourself nor any other among your folk. What stands between Ithil'wath and me shall remain there until he chooses to meet me in combat."  
  
"Very well, I cannot gainsay your words for I doubt I would be as gracious were it me in your position," smiled the Balrog Slayer. "Will you let us hear your name for I would have your brave deeds whilst in our fair country reported and commended to both our Lords."  
  
"Gladly will I give my name, yet I cannot accept accolades, nor would my Lord approve them, for acting as duty demands. Cuthenin, Athedreinyn  an Thranduil, Aran o Gladgalen." (I am True-bow, messenger for Thranduil, King of Greenwood.) So speaking the valiant silvan archer bowed again before the mighty reborn Elf.  
  
"Suilad," (Greetings) called one of the mounted cavalry in genuine goodwill, for not all were contemptuous of the visitor, especially in light of their Lord's example. "Will you join us at table, Cuthenin, and tell us tales of your homeland?"  
  
"Le hanteän," (My thanks) a meagre smile attended this acceptance for really the Wood Elf had only the wish to get his chore completed and be gone from the foreign land. His bow was required at home, where every night brought increasing boldness from the foul servants of the Wraiths in Dol Guldur.  
  
"Nay, I must interfere in those plans," said Glorfindel, shrewdly reading the signs of aching fatigue that clung to the archer as thickly as the grime of his travails coated his slender frame. "We must allow our guest to rest and refresh himself before taking his news to Lord Elrond. Now, let us make for home and a hearty breakfast!"  
  
Glorfindel vaulted onto his charger's back and noted the silvan lightly spring upon the withers of his mount. With a wave of his hand, the captain ordered his troops home, falling into formation at the rear alongside the Woodland warrior, and the column galloped through the shallow river's glinting spray.

TBC


	2. Unique and Lofty Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounded and sick at heart, Legolas arrives at Imladris as Thranduil's messenger on the eve of the Council of Elrond. He meets Glorfindel and the two form a unique bond. Through the rites of an ancient religion, Glorfindel becomes Legolas' Soul Keeper and saves him from certain fading due to grief. Love blossoms between the unlikely couple as the great events of the ring War are about to unfold. Features Legolas as Thranduil's love child rather than a legitimate heir.

**Cuthenin (True-Bow)  
by F.E.Morton**  
Beta'd by **Digdigil**. Much thanks, mellonen! Remaining errors are all mine, as they ever were.  
  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.  
  
 _thoughts_  
(elvish translations)  


* * *

**Tadui Peth: Dôr Minai a Brand (Unique and Lofty Place)**  
  
By the time the cavalry rode into the grounds of the Last Homely House, Anor was already an hour above the horizon and a chipper chorus of songbirds, finches, wrens, and sparrows filled the atmosphere with welcoming warbles and trilling calls of merry timbre. Above the open stretch of the Bruinen's ample flood-plain, the sky was positively vibrant with the stunning gleam of the newly arrived day and promised a high and cloudless dome of gentian blue. The woods and copses of hardwoods, orchards and groves of fruit trees, and indeed every shrub and blade of grass looked lush, cultivated, and well tended. The entire place seemed to be a garden. Cuthenin could not decide where to keep his gaze, for every way he turned presented a new vista of such pristine perfection that he was astounded.  
  
He had ridden hard across the broad shallow valley of the Anduin and noted with amazement the strength of the sun's light, so potent that it made his back warm and the skin beneath his collar perspire. The novel experience of travelling openly without the cover of leaves and limbs had at first been daunting and then exhilarating. Yet even there the land had been wild; grasses so high they tickled his mare's belly as she ran; trees bent and gnarled from grappling with wind and weather, brambles and thickets of thorny vines encroaching over the little-used path. He had glimpsed the humble abode of Aiwendil from afar, spying no more than a wispy grey plume adrift over the thatched cottage. Of Beorn's fabled home amid the cove of pencil pines he had discerned naught, though he had strained to spot the shape-shifter at large within its grounds. Nay, there was nothing in his limited experience to prepare him for the utter majesty of the gracious realm of Elrond Half-elven.  
  
Even the humblest of out-buildings presented a pleasing and graceful facade. The stables were elegant and ornately fashioned with a high peaked roof tiled in red clay, white-washed wooden walls, and many open windows. To know that the horses in Imladris had better quarters than most of the people in his homeland was an uncomfortable comparison to make. Indeed, Cuthenin had almost mistaken the stately building for the Lord's abode, until he rounded a curve by a fine high wind-brake of cedar trees. The Wood Elf could only stare in speechless awe. He had seen pictures in books of the glory of Aman and the dwellings of the Calaquendi in Tirion, and this residence might easily be one of those.  
  
It had four tiers of rooms and so many balconies and porches, turrets and cupolas that it was just possible for every chamber to have a spectacular view of the sweeping expanse of the Hidden Vale. Everything was dazzling, white and spotless like polished alabaster, trimmed out in sculpted friezes and carved knot-work ornaments. There were fountains by the courtyard and statuary in the gardens, and the air was filled with the sweet music of fair voices and the delectable scents of rare flowers.  
  
Cuthenin realised that all the warriors had dismounted and led away their chargers and his mare stamped an impatient foot. No doubt she had been equally impressed and desirous of inspecting the uncommon domicile and sampling the fresh oats she could smell from the open barn. The archer slid off her back and gave her a quick and affectionate tug of the ears before letting her trot off to find an empty stall with a full manger.  
  
And then he hesitated a bit, having no idea where he was to go or to whom he should report. The Noldorin soldiers all seemed to have tasks to do and places to be and were hurrying to get them done and be gone. Some glanced his way curiously, a few nodded and smiled, but none of them seemed to feel it necessary to instruct him, probably assuming he knew the way. The legendary First Age warrior was no where to be seen and Cuthenin frowned. He would just have to find someone and ask, for surely there was a place in all this huge castle where visiting messengers were expected to await audience with the Lord of Imladris. He set off toward the mansion determinedly and had gone no more than four paces when he was hailed from a small side porch near the back of the building. It was Glorfindel.  
  
"Cuthenin, this way, if you please," he smiled and motioned with his arm as he descended from the banistered veranda. Glorfindel met the Wood Elf in the yard and took careful hold of an elbow, guiding him away from the huge house as he did so. He gave the archer another cursory examination and tried to keep his tone light when next he spoke. "I have arranged a private abode for you, free of the agitation and clamour of the Last Homely House proper. The place is fairly crawling with folk from every part of the world, and one can scarcely take a step without tripping over a hobbit, bumping into a pair of dwarves, or nearly being trampled a throng of humans, either rowdy rangers or noble Lords from Gondor."  
  
"Dwarves and humans! What are they all doing here? And what is a hobbit? Never have I heard of such a people."  
  
"Hobbits are rather like miniature elvish humans, if humans were very small and much more elf-like. They are very cheerful and full of mischief and I think it is these people humans are referring to when talk of brownies starts up."  
  
"Ah," nodded Cuthenin, trying to picture this in his thoughts and failing. He sighed. "Your hospitality is most beneficent, yet there is no need to make special arrangements for me. No doubt there is a regular area set aside for messengers from other realms?"  
  
"True, but you see there is already a messenger here from Lorien and, expecting no others, we turned the rest of that space over to the rangers, for they do not get on well with their noble cousins from the White City. And the dwarves are quartered in the east wing while the humans from Gondor are in the north this time. Elrond's family occupies the apartments facing west, the hobbits are in the guest chambers of the southern portion, and the Healing wing comprises the remainder of the house not used for formal functions. I could not in good conscience put you up in a sick bed or the library!" Actually, Glorfindel was rather abashed to be directing the silvan away from the splendour of Elrond's house and had feared the warrior would be offended to be so excluded. He almost laughed in relief to hear that the messenger thought he was being afforded extra courtesy.  
  
Cuthenin was troubled, for while it was beyond overwhelming for the valourous Vanya to be personally escorting him to his quarters, he really had no need of rooms, per se, for he would be ready to leave after only a short respite for himself and his horse. Long enough for him to get himself clean and presentable, tell his news, and receive a reply from the Elf Lord. No more, surely, than a few hours would be required for that.  
  
"Forgive me, Lord Glorfindel…"  
  
"Glorfindel will suffice; I do not have any holdings or people of my own here," the legend corrected kindly and with a friendly smile.  
  
"As you wish. I was only going to suggest that this is all unnecessary. I have no plans to remain, for I am urgently needed back home. Please forgive me for being forward, but…"  
  
"It is I who should ask pardon, Cuthenin. Elrond cannot meet with you today, for he, Mithrandir, and one of the rangers are currently in conference and unlikely to be free any time soon. And there is a patient in the Healing wards, one of the hobbits, in urgent need of close attendance. Elrond will allow no other to oversee the halfling's care. If you can but abide a few turns or Anor, there will be time for your report."  
  
Cuthenin came to a halt and glanced first at the Balrog Slayer, then the ground under his feet, and finally turned to the north and gazed long into the impenetrable barricade of fair green leaves and brown bark that obscured all but the mist-wreathed peaks of the grim grey mountains. His whole being radiated a deep and malignant grief that threatened to overtake the staunch control he held over his countenance. The colour of his sky-hued eyes darkened to the cast of storm-laden thunderclouds and gleamed with a sheen only unshed tears could create.  
  
He blinked twice and turned back to his companion, struggling to maintain a dignified posture when he felt ready to scream. He must return and do honour to his fallen colleagues; it was unconscionable to leave them there exposed upon the broken path to the frigid elements and the merciless teeth of scavengers.  
  
 _Or worse._  
  
The grotesque image of Orcs feasting on his comrades' flesh, dismembering their bodies and desecrating their remains, forced itself within his weary mind and Cuthenin had to fight to keep from retching on the grass.  
  
"I must go. I left my friends in the pass, and it cannot remain thus. It is not the way of my people to abandon the dead." He managed to get these sentences out without faltering and then clamped his jaws tight, swallowing back the rising swell of aching acidity working up through his oesophagus.  
  
"Aye, it is not our way either, to leave the deceased, unless the circumstances are dire. Yours were, and I deem you escaped with your life and that just barely. I have seen many years and, though you conceal it well, the wounds you took in the struggle are not beyond my notice."  
  
"Lord Glorfindel, I am already healed and…"  
  
"Just Glorfindel, maethor eryndôr (woodland warrior). Peace, have I not already said I would not place you in the Healing Ward? I trust that if you needed a physician's help you would seek it. I but wish to emphasise that the option taken was the only one available to you, and your successful arrival here was a victory purchased with the bloody currency of misery and death.  
  
"You cannot help your friends now and it has been at least three days since the battle, has it not? Whatever remnant of them is left will not be recognisable should you return." Glorfindel spoke those words as gently as he could, but that did not prevent the stricken pallor that rendered the Wood Elf's face into a mask of raw pain and shocked despair.  
  
"Nae! (Alas!)" Cuthenin shook his head and took a step back breaking from the warrior's hold. "There must be something…I need to see to them. There are customs, prayers to make, laments to sing and…"  
  
"Cuthenin, come with me now. You and I will discuss this further once you have refreshed yourself and taken some nourishment," Glorfindel spoke softly but allowed his voice to assume an undertone of command, playing up the role of legendary elder no youth so green would dare defy. He took hold of the Wood Elf's arm and started forward again, relieved when the archer fell into step without opposition.  
  
Now Glorfindel had intended to lead the silvan to his own house, for he dwelt alone and therein was ample space. He hoped it was not too much discourtesy to be shunted out of the Lord's mansion if that meant sharing lodging with the valley's most esteemed warrior. Yet he was uneasy, for the archer was young indeed and had undergone a harrowing initiation into the cruel realities of the darkening world beyond the safety of his own trees.  
  
 _Not that Mirkwood is a peaceful haven, yet it is home for him and all that he knows. His people must have rites or customs to help him cope with this sort of shock while I cannot fathom what those might encompass. At the very least, familiar faces and the kinship of shared loss would provide comfort and an acceptable outlet for expressing the sorrow inundating his spirit. Imladris has none of these things; everything here is but a foreign oddity._  
  
The people of the Woodland Realm could not be more different, though they were elf-kind, from those of Imladris. The silvan folk dwelt amid the treetops, even as the Galadhrim of Lothlorien, but lacked the refinement and grandeur of Galadriel's folk. The Sindarin elves mixed in with the elusive Wood Elves were purported to occupy a large underground fortress of sorts. Nothing even vaguely resembling the ornate structures and carefully planned organisation of the Hidden Vale's abodes would be found in Mirkwood.  
  
 _He has probably never been inside a proper house before._  
  
Glorfindel did not like the silence between them, for it was weighted with the corpses of three dead warriors. He glanced at Cuthenin, concerned that he had said nothing for some time and walked as one removed, pacing along in numb acquiescence. He did not like the idea of the messenger withdrawing into the depths of gloom and guilt, beset by waking nightmares and recurring visions of the gruesome battle. As they paced closer to his home, Glorfindel became more convinced with every step that shutting the Wood Elf up inside a building of wood and stone, no matter how elegant and comfortable it might be, would be the wrong thing to do.  
  
Thus, as he entered through the gate in the low-walled courtyard, he veered off into the grounds and slowed his pace. An idea came to him and he seized upon it, almost smiling for the sheer brilliance of the notion and changing course again. He guided the unresponsive silvan right out the rear postern into a cool and shaded dell guarded by a small stand of oak trees. These hardwoods had graced this spot for certainly more years than the Wood Elf had yet lived.  
  
In the heart of the little weald was a giant of a tree unlike any other in Imladris that he knew of, for it had been in the place untold numbers of centuries. Indeed, these were not like ordinary oaks and Celeborn had once come to see them, pronouncing them entirely unique to the Hidden Vale, for no other species of oak could live so long as these must have done to reach such amazing height and girth. In the largest, most ancient of the nearly immortal trees, Elrohir and Elladan had played as children and later Estel had spent many happy years climbing on its mighty limbs. Far up in the branches, but not too far for the safety of youngsters, was a sturdy wooden talan.  
  
Glorfindel decided that it would be ideal for Cuthenin. The Wood Elf would be in the shelter of trees, something he would appreciate, and still be close enough for the Balrog Slayer to keep an eye on him. He halted beneath the oak and let go of the warrior's arm. Still no response revealed that the archer was even aware of his surroundings and the Balrog Slayer's brow furrowed in worry.  
  
"Cuthenin. This is the place where you will stay."  
  
At the speaking of his name, the silvan's head snapped sharply in Glorfindel's direction and a blankly bewildered stare traversed the Vanya's features. He gazed around him then at the trees and took a hesitant step on his own toward them.  
  
"You will stay here and you will not be alone," Glorfindel repeated firmly and motioned upwards into the branches. The Wood Elf followed his hand and his eyes found the talan. He returned his sight to his host and gave a short nod. The next instant instinct took over and he dashed for the old oak, hoisting himself up high in the branches until he was nearly hidden from view. Glorfindel exhaled a small disconcerted breath of both surprise and bemusement. He peered into the sun-sparkled leaves, but all he could make out was one booted foot dangling beneath the foliage.  
  
"I will gather some things from my house, there within the walled garden," he called into the limbs and then turned away, neither expecting nor receiving a response.  
  
This minor task did not take very long and Glorfindel returned laden with a pack and a large basket of necessities: bedding and water and toiletries. Yet when he climbed up to the talan he discovered the woodland warrior curled up on the floor, sound asleep amid the thick mulch of dried leaves and twigs that had collected on the old flet over the long years of neglect. Glorfindel had expected something of the kind would occur and was prepared to wait, feeling it was best to let the elf recover from the strain and exhaustion in his own time. He reached into the pack and pulled out a leather-bound book, settled against the trunk, and started to read.  
  
Nearly half the volume was perused before the silvan stirred and then it was just as Glorfindel had feared. One second the archer was lying still and limp as a wet rag and the next gave a hoarse shout and scrambled to his feet, bow at the ready in his left hand while his right reached in vain for an arrow from his empty quiver. The Vanya was by his side immediately, reaching carefully for the rigidly trembling, disoriented elf as he spoke.  
  
"Peace, it was a dream. The danger is past and you are in Imladris. Do you hear me? Cuthenin, answer."  
  
"I hear you," he croaked out and sank back to the floor, dropping the bow, heart pounding and chest heaving as the adrenalin coursed through him. "I left them!" he cried in disgust and buried his face in his hands.  
  
"You left them, that is true, but they were dead, were they not?"  
  
"Aye, they were dead." He sighed and lowered his hands, lifting his desolate countenance to the ancient warrior's. "But I should not have left them all the same."  
  
"Why, so that you could die also? Would that change their fate or make their sacrifice more worthy?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"What are you doing here?"  
  
"I am a messenger; I am charged to…"  
  
"Nay, I did not ask what a messenger's duty is, Cuthenin. I wish to know why you were chosen to see it done."  
  
The result of this question was not what Glorfindel had anticipated, for Cuthenin's whole body sagged and he dropped his head in shame. He was shaking visibly and the elder soldier quickly knelt beside him and laid a steadying hand on his shoulder. He waited, not wishing to press too hard, for he could see now there was more to the Wood Elf's burden than the gruesome deaths of his comrades in the mountain pass.  
  
"I am here because I am responsible for the creature's escape. Two elves died because of my misjudgement. I was the one entrusted to oversee the cringing creeper and I am the one who allowed it to be taken from the cell. I was not even there when the attack occurred; I had left with the change of the watch."  
  
"That is grave indeed." Glorfindel squeezed the archer's shoulder and sighed heavily, crossing his legs beneath his so he could sit next to the silvan. He scrutinised the dejected figure beside him closely and found nothing to alter his initial impression of the warrior: Cuthenin was young and inexperienced but not cowardly or lax in performance of his duty. Given his lack of years, it was likely this incident had taken place during the warrior's first assignment in command. It was no wonder the youth felt guilty for the lives forfeited. The loss of confidence such an unfortunate event had caused now threatened to thwart the Wood Elf's career and rob Greenwood of a skilled archer.  
  
"Grave indeed," the Vanya repeated and shook his head sadly. Yet he wished to salvage the warrior if possible. "Tell me, how long is a standard watch in the heart of Mirkwood?"  
  
"Three tours of Ithil and two of Anor. Why do you ask?"  
  
"Just respond for now, archer. What is the reason for that period of time instead of another?"  
  
"It is a delicate balance between vigilance and readiness. Shorter watches are not feasible given the small numbers in one company. Any longer without rest and warriors begin to grow fatigued. None would be able to endure the rigours of a lengthy patrol with lesser respite. The possibility of errors increases; we cannot afford such hazardous inattention."  
  
"And did you leave your post before the appointed time? Did you fail to stand the full watch?"  
  
"Nay!"  
  
"Was it forbidden to remove the prisoner from the cell?"  
  
"No, but it was a risk I should not have taken."  
  
"Why did you decide to do this?"  
  
"It was something Mithrandir said. He spoke of healing the creature of the ills the long enslavement by the Shadow had inflicted, of exposing the prisoner to wholesome air, clean water, and the company of elf-kind."  
  
"From your responses, I judge the failure was unavoidable and your behaviour fitting to the standards of your King. You did not let others take the burden of your watch. Had you done so, then mayhap the lack of rest might have dulled the keen senses of those guarding the Gollum in your place. Nor did you ignore the words of a wise and learned wizard, thus demonstrating compassion to a being under your doom."  
  
"I cannot see it that way. Had I refused the creature's request to leave the cell, no one would have died."  
  
"You cannot know that for certainty, for the attack may have come all the same. Then maybe the prisoner would still be in the cell but more lives would have been lost."  
  
"I cannot understand how the Orcs got so close without arousing the guards' notice. Had I been there…"  
  
"But you were not there. Perhaps you believe your abilities are so superior to your fellows' that your mere presence could have forestalled the ambush."  
  
"What did you say?" Cuthenin turned incredulous and angry eyes upon his host. "That is not true! I only meant…"  
  
"Good!" Glorfindel cut him off. "Now then, this was your first taste of command and it is unfortunate you had to be taught so harsh a lesson on your initiation into leadership. Yet it is a cruel and inescapable fact: when those under your authority are placed in dangerous arenas, not all of them will survive. No matter how able you are, how brave you are, how noble and true of heart you remain, still some that you oversee will perish. You must face this, Cuthenin, and either come to accept it or be destroyed by it."  
  
The Wood Elf stared in afflicted quandary at the noble elf, unable to formulate any sort of reply to such an unexpected lecture. Glorfindel's words lifted the burden of guilty shame and in its place laid upon Cuthenin's shoulders the heavy mantle of responsible authority. The messenger suddenly saw that his concept of being in charge was terribly skewed. He had believed his captaincy would enable him to protect his people from harm, preventing loss of life and aiding in driving the pestilence of Dol Guldur from his homeland. Now it was clear this was not the case and the archer realised how very small his role actually was in and of itself. Only in conjunction with the compliant and unified actions of all the elves under his command could any change hope to be accomplished. And this bewildered him.  
  
"But then to what purpose do we choose some to lead and others to follow? Is it not better if all work together on the same goal equally, since we are none more able than the other to prevent these tragedies?" he asked quietly, assuming the twice-born warrior would know the thoughts preceding it. He was not mistaken.  
  
"Not all have the strength to accept the responsibility of leadership. It is a weighty burden and one that will work upon your heart and mind, assailing you with self-doubts, grief, and remorse. Few can bear a strain so great, realising they must send friends and kinsmen into the teeth of death when they truly wish to shield these loved ones from any hardship. Yet I see this strength within you, Cuthenin, and judge that the trust emplaced upon you by the elders of your folk was not misguided."  
  
Once more Cuthenin found himself unable to string together enough coherent thoughts to produce a fitting answer. Glorfindel spoke with wisdom bestowed by thousands of years of fighting the darkness, both as a leader and a warrior for his people and those of Eärendil. His endorsement of the messenger's worthiness was as rain upon seeds and within the younger elf's spirit the kernel of maturity germinated. The archer found his perspective altered, transformed from a sense of helpless futility into a grim and tenacious determination. He was overwhelmed with gratitude and at that moment desired nothing so much as to retain the ancient warrior's approbation. He smiled slightly and bowed his head in respectful appreciation.  
  
"Le hantëan," (I thank thee) he said soberly and lifted a gleaming expression bursting with renewed pride and hope to the Vanya's serious countenance.  
  
"Pedon pith thenid", (I speak true words) answered Glorfindel with equal gravity. They were silent for the passage of a few seconds and then he squeezed the Wood Elf's shoulder lightly and rose. "It is almost mid-day and you have yet to take any sustenance or cleanse yourself. I will show you to the baths and, if it is not against your customs, join you in sluicing the dust of a long series of night patrols from my person."  
  
"It is not contrary to my peoples' ways to share bathing," replied Cuthenin evenly and stood also. In truth he was not so calm in his mind, for while communal baths were not uncommon among kin, close friends, or comrades in arms it was another thing altogether to wash one's body openly before strangers. Still he did not wish to appear timid and attempted a smile. "Lead the way, Glorfindel."  
  
TBC


	3. At the Pools

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounded and sick at heart, Legolas arrives at Imladris as Thranduil's messenger on the eve of the Council of Elrond. He meets Glorfindel and the two form a unique bond. Through the rites of an ancient religion, Glorfindel becomes Legolas' Soul Keeper and saves him from certain fading due to grief. Love blossoms between the unlikely couple as the great events of the ring War are about to unfold. Features Legolas as Thranduil's love child rather than a legitimate heir.

**Cuthenin (True-Bow)  
by F.E.Morton**  
Beta'd by **Digdigil**. Much thanks, mellonen! Remaining errors are all mine, as they ever were.  
  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.  
  
 _thoughts_  
(elvish translations)  


* * *

**Tadui Peth: Na Liniath (Part Three: At the Pools)**  
  
Glorfindel and Cuthenin walked from the walled garden in silence just as they had done upon entering it, yet this time the sombre gloom was less weighty upon the silvan's shoulders. Each elf held onto one handle of the wicker basket containing the necessities for bathing and their pace was neither hurried nor sluggish as they journeyed away from the Vanya's home. The younger elf observed with renewed enjoyment the glamour and refinement of the landscaped grounds and gardens which the pair traversed and noted their direction was once more away from the bustling activity that surrounded the main house of Elrond Peredhil. After a leisurely stroll of nearly half an hour's passing, the terrain became more rocky and the sound of water cascading over a high cliff met the archer's keen hearing. They did not follow the noise to its source, however, for the pathway led deeper into the exposed stone outcrops until at last a sheltered grotto came into view.  
  
Here, the rock was smoothed and moulded by centuries of manipulative, watery fingers working on the sharp contours of the rugged stone. The sculpted terraces, natural shelves, and shallow steps bespoke the changing levels of the liquid over time and the rock was stained in a pleasing series of rust and green and yellow coloured ribbons where the mineral-rich water had long massaged it. There were three spring-fed pools steaming into the temperate atmosphere, heated to a degree of warmth sure to ease aches and loosen strained muscles. Long, ephemeral tendrils of misty vapour peeled from the glassy surface of the baths and filled the air with a veil of fog sufficient to provide a modicum of privacy for those who might be timid of sharing ablutions. Not that this was likely to be required here, for the naturally heated pools were empty but for one Elf.  
  
Cuthenin stopped on the path, forcing Glorfindel's halt as well, and smiled with an appreciative sigh. A hot spring was more than he had dared to hope for and exactly what he needed; this he realised as soon as he perceived the peaceful grotto. There was not a single part of him that did not either ache or burn from the lengthy, sleepless journey and from the still mending tears in flesh and muscle. He was glad for the lack of a crowd and credited the advanced hour of the day for the relative solitude. He had several reasons to wish to deter gawkers curious to see his naked form. The archer met his host's questioning gaze with a nod and they resumed their pace.  
  
The lone bather was soaking in the furthest spring from the walk-way, reclining so that he was nearly submerged in the rejuvenating water, and lifted his head as the interlopers approached. He did not bother to hide his displeasure at their arrival, scowling and sighing in aggravation as he sat up.  
  
"Glorfindel," said the dark-haired ellon (male elf), making the word short and clipped yet filled over-brimming with distaste.  
  
"Erestor," the legendary Vanya curtly replied. He led the way to the second pool and indicated for Cuthenin to set the basket down.  
  
The Wood Elf glanced briefly at the bather their presence had so disturbed and gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, meeting the other's rather intense gaze through the steam. Being that this was Imladris and observing the ellon's piercing onyx eyes and coal-black locks, he surmised Erestor was of Noldorin descent. Cuthenin steeled himself for more jibes and jokes. As before, he repressed any outward sign of the grimly stoic mood that surrounded him as the unpleasant memory of Ithil'wath's insults replayed in his mind. He followed Glorfindel's example, helping unpack the basket, and realised a bit late that he did not have anything clean to wear after the bath. He sighed almost imperceptibly as they set soap and towels on the dry lip of sandstone rimming the tepid pond.  
  
While this mundane task was accomplished, the Wood Elf was acutely aware of the Noldo's close scrutiny. Cuthenin refused to return the rude behaviour in kind, however, feeling it would be unwise to encourage further conflict with the Imladrian elves. Undressing and then bathing in front of this arrogant and disdainful ellon was not something the archer looked forward to and his delight over the impending soak vanished. He turned his back to the stranger and removed his cloak, folding it neatly before sitting on the rock to pull off his boots.  
  
"Man ná sina?" (Who is this?) The Noldo spoke in a light, amused tone to Glorfindel, his hand indicating the messenger as he did so. His speech was in the High Tongue in order to prevent the guest from comprehending his meaning, for he knew at once the visitor was silvan. As did most of the Noldor, Erestor considered the Wood Elves too ignorant to understand Quenya, a language reserved in these latter days of the Third Age only for ancient lore and lofty rituals. Indeed, the language of the Calaquendi was heard less in Middle-earth than the human tongue of Westron.  
  
"Athedreinyn o Thranduil." (Thranduil's messenger.) Glorfindel replied succinctly and pointedly in Sindarin, taking a seat to remove his boots also. He flicked an icy glare, minute in length but aeons long in its infinite frigidity, toward the Noldo.  
  
"Haryas essë?" (He has a name?) Erestor's voice contained the unmistakable timbre of sardonic ridicule and even had it not the smirk upending his graceful lips would have clearly indicated his scorn. He continued in Quenya and smiled in overtly indulgent arrogance when the silvan looked up.  
  
"Aye." said Glorfindel flatly and stood, stripping off his tunic and shirt.  
  
Cuthenin glanced between the dark-haired and golden-haired elves curiously, for it was evident these two were not exactly on friendly terms, but kept his features blank of any expression that might indicate he understood what they were saying. The fact that he was well-educated was not something he was permitted to divulge, no matter how much his pride might wish it. All the Athedrainyn were skilled in the High Tongue. Greenwood's King was of the opinion that the pretence of ignorance lent the silvans an advantage regarding privileged information that might be exchanged in the formal language.  
  
Besides, at least the two were concentrating on their obvious contest of wills and he hoped that would deflect their attention from him as he stripped down. He stood, took a calming breath, and removed his tunic quickly, peering furtively in Glorfindel's direction to see if he was watching. He was and Cuthenin froze, for the dried blood on his pale green shirt mapped his injuries plainly. Here was the first reason he would have prefered a solo swim in the river, for he did not wish to be detained in Imladris due to the state of his health.  
  
Glorfindel's brow wrinkled in concern; the locations and extent of the brown stains indicated the archer's wounds were serious. He raised eyes to Cuthenin and waited, for while he was not about to demand to see the healing scars neither would he enter the bath before observing the progress of the Elf's recovery.  
  
"Ela! Ohtar caurëa, nurtalë harwërya var venessërya?" (Lo! A timid warrior, hiding his wounds or his beauty?) sneered the dark Elf.  
  
Cuthenin allowed his gaze to spend a second's worth of time on the mocking visage before unlacing his shirt and cautiously easing out of it. He heard both elves' short exhalations of surprise but chose to ignore them, carefully untying the makeshift bandages from his chest and shoulder, revealing two newly closed gashes from sword and arrow punctures. Nothing short of an attack of Orcs would turn away their attention now, he realised, and shut his eyes as he hurriedly unlaced his leggings, peeled them off as quickly as his hurting body allowed, and slipped into the heated water.  
  
Which was not fast enough to prevent his audience from more exclamations of either surprise or appreciation or both.  
  
"Harwër ar venessë yúyo." (Wounds and beauty both.) said the one called Erestor quietly, blatantly ogling the upper portion of the silvan's exposed body, which included everything from mid-thigh and higher, for the pools were no longer deep as once they had been in Ages past.  
  
"Farëa, Erestor. Sina lumna, úalassëa." (Enough, Erestor. This is serious, not amusing.) warned Glorfindel. He hastened to finish undressing when a harsh hiss of pain accompanied the hot water's contact with their visitor's injuries as he lowered himself to the floor of the bath. The Vanya stepped into the pool and sat next to Cuthenin, whose face was drawn into a weary portrait of severe discomfort as he attempted to adjust to the stinging heat. Muted splashing alerted Glorfindel that Erestor was on his feet and wading to the side of his bath nearest the silvan and he spared the Noldo a stern look when the Elf re-seated himself just on the other side of the rock.  
  
"You are not fully healed," cautioned the Balrog Slayer, returning his eyes to the messenger. "These are not trivial wounds, Cuthenin. Will you allow me to examine that tear at your side and the one in your shoulder?"  
   
"It is well, truly, but if you need to satisfy yourself I will not impede you," replied Cuthenin with a sharp intake of breath, eyes squeezed shut against the discomfort as brand new skin and nerves protested the change in temperature. When he opened them again, he found Glorfindel staring in a peculiar mixture of surprise and concern. A look in the other's direction confirmed the Noldo's interest fixed on him as well.  
  
Cuthenin knew their amazement had more to do with the other marks his bared skin revealed than the closed gashes. In the custom of his people, his body was vividly decorated with images and symbols, some arcane, some utilitarian, and others purely for their loveliness. Here was the second reason he desired to remain covered in the presence of strangers.  
  
There were potent signs and spells of protection covering his heart, the runes forming a tri-part spiral that wound outward from his left nipple, the deep indigo dye a sharp contrast against the node's dusky pink hue and the fair apricot shade of the un-inked flesh. More such writing adorned his forearms.  
  
Upon his back across his shoulders an elaborate and detailed image of an eagle soaring through a twilight sky spanned the archer's body and defined his well-toned physique. Above the bird's head in the grey-blue background of early night a scatter of bright white points indicated the constellation Thôr (Vega). Thus had the stars been arranged at the moment of his conception and thus the mightiest of Yavanna's avians were appointed the Wood Elf's guardians. Only careful inspection would alert the observer to the fact that the raptor's outspread feathers were likewise comprised of ancient incantations and prayers.  
  
In three places on the Wood Elf's body, his left ankle, right hip, and right biceps, was etched the sign of his name and the lineage of his House. Here was the third reason he did not want such close inspection. This was a necessary practice among warriors facing frequent war with the demented savagery of Orcs, for the bodies of the fallen were usually dismembered and desecrated. At times, only these marks made identification of one victim from another possible. However, Cuthenin had no desire to inform the Noldor of his station and parentage.  
  
Finally, at the very base of Cuthenin's spine was painted an indelible tracery of delicate Morning Glories in palest lavender amid an artistic spray of green vines and leaves.  
  
The woodland warrior mentally braced himself for open laughter and outright mockery, for such were the reactions reported by other Athedrainyn returning from Lorien. Even among the Galadhrim these sacred customs had long ago died out and few remained living in Middle-earth who had once adhered to the archaic beliefs. So much more then must the lofty elves of Imladris find the practice risible.    
  
The Noldo did not disappoint him. The black-haired Elf gave a loud snort of a guffaw and shook his head as he propped his arms on the stone and bent over the near-side of his pool for a closer look at the colourful tattoos remaining above the water line.  
  
"Man verca, yára tainar nar sinar? Certar an varyalë on nostalë?" (What wild, ancient signs are these? Runes for protection or fertility?) Erestor laughed smugly as Glorfindel sent him another threatening glare. "Lean forward; let me see your back," he ordered the silvan in imperious Sindarin.  
  
Cuthenin met his scornful stare coolly and shrugged. "As you wish." He shifted to display the images that had so captivated the Noldo's attention. He was not ashamed of the marks but their meaning was personal and he had no intention of revealing to this sneering and pompous Noldo the reasons for each one.  
  
"Why an eagle? I would have thought a hare or a doe a more fitting picture to paint upon Nandorin skin," Erestor snickered.  
  
Glorfindel ignored his countryman's sarcastic ribbing and met the Wood Elf's eyes with apologetic sympathy. He was pleased that Cuthenin simply resumed his place without comment and lifted his arm away from his right side to allow the Vanya's inspection.  
  
The veteran fighter knew a poisoned wound when he saw one, for the First-born rarely retained any sign of healed injuries unless some such devilry was introduced to slow the body's natural defences. He carefully prodded the tender skin, so bright a red that the blood seemed ready to burst through the thin cover of new hide sealing it, and did not miss the slight flinch his touch incited. He lifted sombre eyes to Cuthenin and frowned as he straightened up.  
  
The deep puncture in the shoulder was no better and looked as though the flesh had spent some time being devoured by infection before the warrior's body was able to fight off the toxin's effects. Slowly Glorfindel lifted a hand to the messenger's neck and felt the rate of his pulse. He gave a small grunt of satisfaction and raised both Cuthenin's hands, overturning them to inspect his wrists, knowing there would be tell-tale blue swelling there if the vile potion was still troubling the Elf. There was only a very slight discolouration remaining yet he held the arms captive a few moments more.  
  
From the base of his hands to the fold of the elbow, the archer's forearms were inscribed in beautiful and delicate script, the letters written in dark blue ink forming incantations and supplications derived from an ancient race and tongue that made the Vanya's brows arch in inquisitive regard. Few, he knew, would comprehend the meaning of these powerful signs; only those elves remaining in Middle-earth who had come of age before the rising of Anor and Ithil might recognise such marks. Glorfindel hurriedly turned the woodland warrior's arms down again and sent him a cautionary look, darting his eyes in the Noldo's direction and back, for Erestor was one such Elf. The faintest tip of the silvan's head indicated he had been understood and the Balrog Slayer smiled.  
  
"I am satisfied, yet a period of rest would enhance your return to full health," he said.  
  
"Aye; I shall take your advice."  
  
"So then you are called Cuthenin. Is that your true appellation, True-Bow, or an affectation meant to impress your peers and suitors?" Erestor quipped with another laugh, for he had not had difficulty reading the Sindarin inscription bearing the archer's name and lineage: Legolas Thranduilion nail, Hîl od Oropher, Nost en Ferin. (Green-leaf, third son of Thranduil, Heir of Oropher, of the House of the Beeches)  
  
"Vá, Erestor," (Do not) warned Glorfindel in chilly tones. One's name was not a thing to make light of and knowing this Elf's bloodlines heightened the possibility for an explosive retort, for the family's propensity for temper was widely remarked. What remained unknown was exactly where this one's limit was, and Glorfindel suspected the youthful archer did not know himself.  
  
"It is as true a name as any you possess," the silvan smiled coldly and relaxed in the pool now that the Balrog Slayer's probing examination was finished, stretching his legs out and revelling in the warmth enveloping him almost up to his chin. He rested his head against the rock rim and closed his eyes to add to the silent dismissal, suppressing a smile when he heard an indignant exclamation fall from the Noldo's lips.  
  
"Calaviltë," (Lightless - A being that lacks inner-light; equivalent to saying someone is not an Elf. Slightly less offensive than calling someone an Orc.) the Noldo remarked in pleasant tones of lilting Quenya, smiling at Glorfindel.  
  
"Istaviltë," (Witless) countered Glorfindel as he, too, extended his tall, lanky frame into the soothing water next to Cuthenin, inhaling the moisture laden air deeply. "Erestor is Lord Elrond's head butler," he explained to the Wood Elf.  
  
"Chief Advisor and second cousin," corrected Erestor in caustic tones.  
  
"Mae Govannen," said Cuthenin with exaggerated jubilance and gifted the scornful Elf with his most dazzling smile, just restraining himself from adding that his King had a fine butler also and the two would no doubt get on famously should they ever meet. He was quite certain the Noldo would understand he was thinking something along these lines and preferred not to waste the energy required to voice the observation aloud.  
  
Erestor did not return the greeting, glowering fiercely at the lowly silvan, not sure at all whether the ellon was dim-witted enough to mean the hearty welcome or sharp-witted enough to put him in just this quandary.  
  
For a few moments all was quiet save for the gentle songs of wrens and finches and the distant rush of the cataract far beyond their sight. Glorfindel permitted himself to relax, Cuthenin took the soap and lazily began washing away the grime of the battle, and Erestor decided the timing was perfect for another round of snide remarks.  
  
"Nályë faila lavë sina moriquendi mi nendi nosséva," (You are generous to allow this dark-elf in the family pools.) groused Erestor.  
  
"Hautë, Erestor. Mirën sérë," (Stop, Erestor. I want rest.) growled Glorfindel.  
  
"Ve mirël," (As you wish.) murmured the Noldo. He watched until his antagonist's eyelids dropped down to cover the noble warrior's vibrant beryl orbs and let an extra second or two pass by in quietude. When he was sure Glorfindel was convinced he had won the verbal contest by forestalling it completely, Erestor returned to his needling queries. "Varyëalyes, an man?" (You protect him, why?)  
  
Glorfindel's eyes snapped open and he fixed them on the Noldo in exasperated fury. However, the wily kinsman of Elrond was not about to be daunted by so meagre a remonstrance as that.  
  
"Hanyëan. Sina laiquendi hanu ná melindolya vinya." (I understand. This male green-elf is your new lover.)  
  
"Nay."  
  
"Nás vanima, Glorfindel, anvanima! A nessa, annessa eceniën aralyë." (He is beautiful, Glorfindel, exceedingly beautiful! And young, the youngest I have seen with you.)  
  
"Á Nuhtë lambalya." (Hold your tongue.) Glorfindel tensed and spoke through clenched jaws, attempting to keep his volume moderate rather than cause any unnecessary distress to the silvan archer. He had no notion that his efforts were in vain, never suspecting the woodland Elf understood Quenya perfectly.  
  
For his part, Cuthenin struggled mightily to keep his composure lest he give away the knowledge he possessed of their High Speech. These insults were aimed at the Vanya warrior, he realised, and that was all that helped him maintain an outwardly calm demeanour. Cuthenin could not believe he must endure further derogation after being in Imladris so short a time. Fortunately, his agitation was taken as mere irritation and curiosity to be excluded from the private conversation and neither participant in the verbal sparring realised he was aware of the subject matter.  
  
"Nás nessa farëa harya vénë; wen an laiquassë, sinar atta nati mani." (He is young enough to possess virginity; young and inexperienced, these two things are good.)  
  
"Excuse me!" Cuthenin blurted out suddenly, unable to stand any more. "I will leave and allow you to continue this… your discussion in peace. It is not my intention to cause anyone the need to speak a foreign tongue in their own country." So saying he rose hastily and stepped from the bath, grabbing up one of the towels from the basket and wrapping it around his hips.  
  
"Nay, do not go, Legolas," pleaded Erestor in mock remorse. "I have enjoyed soaking long enough while you have just arrived after single-handedly killing, what was the number, a hundred orcs?"  
  
His words had the desired effect and the silvan Elf glowered in rigid defiance over the casual reference to Ithil'wath's accusations of prevarication. That the Noldo knew of it already indicated it was probably common knowledge amid the rest of the Valley's citizens also.  
  
"Erestor, enough," admonished Glorfindel.  
  
"It was not an important topic at any rate and one Glorfindel and I can resume at a later time, when perhaps there will be more details to discuss with my colleague." The Noldo continued as he exited the pool and laid a hand on Cuthenin's shoulder to halt his retreat. "Yet I have forgotten to bring a towel; lend me yours and return to the water." So saying he deftly divested the archer of the cloth and allowed himself a long, lascivious look up and down the dripping, flushed body as he casually dried himself.  
  
"Erestor! You are behaving like a child," snapped Glorfindel, but could not resist a less cursory inspection of the naked youth either.  
  
Cuthenin shivered under the intensity of Erestor's devouring stare even though his face quickly grew hot in embarrassment. He returned to the pool with a loud splash so as to avoid the unpleasant scrutiny, ducking his head completely under the water for a few seconds.  
  
Erestor chuckled in a decidedly lecherous manner over the archer's bashful discomfort and matched Glorfindel's livid glare with a merry smile. He knotted the towel closed with a flourish and waved as he turned away. "Wen an laiquassë, mellonen;  ná moica ve mi racalyës." (Young and green, my friend, break him in gently.)  
  
The two bathers refrained from speaking for several minutes as each tried to recover some semblance of the peaceful accord they had achieved prior to encountering the Noldo lord. Glorfindel sighed wearily, mentally debating whether to inform the Wood Elf what Erestor had said, for he worried that the advisor would spread this unseemly rumour all over the valley and further discredit the warrior's reputation.  
  
"I am sorry for that; Erestor and I have a history. Not a pleasant one, at least at the end of it. He never squanders an opportunity to make me regret it wholly," he said.  
  
"He is both crude and unkind, then," Cuthenin answered calmly, "and a fool if he cannot find a means to make peace with a previous…friend. I am thinking you are better as an ally than an enemy."  
  
Glorfindel laughed at this rather blunt assessment of his status. "Aye, so I think also! You are correct about Erestor; he cannot forgive. I find myself asking your pardon once more for the poor behaviour of my countrymen."  
  
"Nay, you are not responsible for every Elf in this realm, surely. Were you to visit my home, no doubt a few silvans would behave with similarly deplorable conduct."  
  
"Because your former lovers are also unable to comprehend the benefit your continued allegiance would bring them?" teased the Vanya and was delighted by the tinge of rose that suddenly tinted the Wood Elf's ears.  
  
"Nay, not so! I have not yet developed any histories of that sort," he answered quietly.  
  
"That is difficult to understand, for you are both fair and valiant, your character withstands the tests of travails and affronts, and you are an able warrior."  
  
Cuthenin had no idea how to respond to that, for while he was aware that some females found him attractive he did not find the opposite sex appealing in that way. The romantic regard of male for male was forbidden in the Woodland Realm. That he felt this kind of attraction was a constant worry, for should he be found out the disgrace to his family would be tremendous. Concealing his body's responses to certain warriors had been especially trying during his adolescence, when his rising hormones promoted embarrassing erections he could not control.  
  
That he felt this kind of attraction for the re-born elda he could not deny and was beyond grateful that age had afforded him a limited degree of control over the outward manifestations of desire. It had not occurred to him that the interest might be mutual. He had never been approached thus by a male and had scrupulously avoided making any such advances himself. Perhaps it is merely Erestor's lewd remarks that stirs the Balrog Slayer, for they were lovers once. Cuthenin did not know if Glorfindel was testing him or simply did not understand the implications of what he was suggesting in less than subtle terms.  
  
He chanced a swift look in the Vanya's direction and found himself unable to resist an appreciative evaluation of the virile warrior's glorious presence. The Balrog Slayer was every inch the ideal of masculine beauty and grace, broadly muscled and lean, fair of features, and crowned with hair of the richest golden colour the archer had ever seen. The Vanya's eyes shone with the glory of Aman and the wisdom of the Ages, and his soul was revealed therein. A vibrant, victorious essence, its tempered strength was forged in the fiery confrontation with death, its intellect enlightened by the lengthy interment in Námo's Halls. There was nothing unappealing about Glorfindel of Gondolin.  
  
Cuthenin was unaware of the small sigh that escaped his lungs as he averted his eyes and resumed a more diligent scrubbing with the soap.  
  
"You are gracious to make such allowances, but I feel compelled to tell you the nature of his speech." Glorfindel realised, with no small bewilderment, that hearing a flirty comment was an uncommon experience for the archer and wisely withdrew. He was content with the silvan's response and slowed his pursuit now that he had made his interest apparent and observed sufficient signals to warrant nurturing it.  
  
"He was speaking of me, perhaps, yet it was clear that you were the target of his slanders."  
  
"Aye." Glorfindel stared in surprise at the silvan's uncanny insight. "It is best for you to be prepared; he is likely to repeat his insinuations to one or two elves known for their inability to exercise prudent judgement. In a matter of hours, most of the valley will assume that you and I are lovers."  
  
Another moment of silence passed. Cuthenin considered his course carefully and decided to take his own assessment of the Vanya seriously: he preferred to encourage the Balrog Slayer's friendship, for thus far the noble Elf had allowed no distinction to be made between his station and that of his guest, a lowly messenger from a lesser realm. He had judged Legolas worthy of respect long before he had any means to learn the lineage of the archer's House. Being accepted in this manner was highly prized in the young warrior's heart, and he made his decision quickly to trust the re-born Elf.  
  
"Nar anessi arrúcima," (There are worse names to be called,) offered Cuthenin, "hequa melindo Glorfindelwa Ondolindello." (than the bed-mate of Glorfindel of Gondolin.)  
  
The venerable Vanya's jaw gaped wide and his eyes expanded to impossible dimensions such that Legolas had to struggle to maintain a straight face, for he was not finished. Patiently he awaited his companion's return to reason, watching from eyes veiled beneath golden lashes.  
  
"Polil quetë Quenya," (You can speak Quenya.) Glorfindel managed to choke out after a few more seconds elapsed, colouring as he recalled the things Erestor had said of Legolas.  
  
"Aye, an hanyan Quenya yando." (Yes, and I understand Quenya also.) iterated Cuthenin serenely, a slight smile threatening to ruin the thrust of his joke. "Enquentën, nar anessi arrúcima." (As I said, there are more terrible names to be given.)  
  
"Man?" (What?) Glorfindel was too stunned to be following the archer's words very closely or perhaps he would have anticipated the final remark.  
  
"Nyáraryë ilyaquen nanyë melindorya." (He could tell everyone I am his lover.)  
  
Legolas remained still, observing the Vanya's response from his outwardly relaxed pose while inside he was suddenly fearful that this was entirely too forward and he should not presume upon his elder's sensibilities so brashly. But then a small quirk of the Balrog Slayer's lips preceded a hearty laugh and Cuthenin's patience was rewarded with a broad smile and shining eyes of sapphire mirth. He returned the expression gladly and exhaled the tension from his lungs.  
  
"Manë quentë," (Well said.) Glorfindel nodded and allowed himself another slow, indulgent inspection of the fair warrior beside him. "We shall have to devise a way to repay Erestor for his mean-spirited gossiping."  
  
"Nay, he is a bore," scowled Legolas, not willing to give the sour-tempered seneschal the satisfaction of causing him enough distress to require retaliation. "I care not for what he says of me unless he names me a liar or a coward. I would ask, however, that you not reveal my proficiency in the High Tongue to the general population, or to Erestor in particular."  
  
"Indeed, I shall guard your trust in me well. But do not underestimate the Noldo, Cuthenin, he can be very vindictive when he so chooses. At the very least, he has seen the insignia worked upon your arm and knows your family name. He is Lord Elrond's kinsman and has the power to make others believe you deliberately concealed who you are in order to spy on our country and report on these perilous events."  
  
"Ai! I cannot allow him to besmirch Hîren Adar's (my Lord Father's) name thusly! Is he likely to reveal my status in Greenwood to these gossips?" Now Legolas was truly agitated, for he had already caused his father enough heartache and had for so long hidden his illicit desires. Though he did not understand what the Vanya meant about the dangerous situation of which he was supposedly gathering knowledge, it was doubly damning to be accused of espionage.To have such tales return to Thranduil's court would be disastrous.  
  
"Nay, that can be prevented at least. I shall speak with Elrond immediately and he will reign in his kinsman's venomous tongue. We must decide how to proceed henceforth. How shall I call you?"  
  
Legolas thought on this only a moment, for it seemed perfectly clear to him how it must be. He had come to relay a simple message, accept the chastisement and censure of the wizard, and return to his own country as quickly as possible. That Mithrandir was actually present was a boon and now he hoped not to have to meet with the imposing Peredhil Lord at all. There was no need to explain his heritage to anyone beyond Glorfindel, but his name could no longer remain secret.  
  
"You may refer to me as Cuthenin, but that shall be a privilege to others. Let the rest of the people know me as Legolas, for I am not displeased with that name and it need not be accompanied by any other designation indicating rank. I only sought to hide the connection to spare my father and my people any shame my failure might bring upon them. It is one thing for a green soldier to make such a detrimental error in judgement, but quite another for the King's youngest to do so. To the Noldor I must remain merely another silvan messenger."  
  
"Yet you have introduced yourself as Cuthenin to my warriors. Erestor's words will contradict this; how shall that be negated without revealing the reason you sought to hide your identity?"  
  
"Nay, Cuthenin is also genuine, for thus was I named by my peers upon reaching majority and most call me this in my homeland. It is for my skill with the bow, obviously, and many elves have such names: those given at birth and those taken upon realising the nature of one's gifts.  
  
"We shall not dispute Erestor; he learned my mother-name only because of the marks I bear. He can have his fun gossiping over that barbaric practice and I shall expound its purpose to any that dare ask the reason for it. There is nothing whatsoever amusing over the need for such, and the Noldo will have revealed his vindictive heart by mocking the dire conditions my people face."  
  
"Indeed, you shall not have to explain anything, for I shall spread the truth myself by informing my warriors of the situation as well as Lord Elrond. Legolas Cuthenin you shall be, then."  
  
"Le hantëan, Glorfindel. (I thank you) I remain in your debt, for it is my dearest wish to undo the disgrace upon my House my deeds have caused rather than add to it."  
  
The Wood Elf fell silent then, and Glorfindel saw the sorrow return to his eyes and the defeat steal over his harried features. It was time to deal with this mounting grief, and the Vanya believed he at last knew a remedy for the silvan's suffering soul.  
  
Yet expedience demanded that he counter Erestor's vengeful grudge first and with reluctance Glorfindel left Cuthenin in the pools, dressing swiftly and hastening to inform Elrond of his newest guest's circumstances.  
  
TBC


	4. Caught in the Middle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounded and sick at heart, Legolas arrives at Imladris as Thranduil's messenger on the eve of the Council of Elrond. He meets Glorfindel and the two form a unique bond. Through the rites of an ancient religion, Glorfindel becomes Legolas' Soul Keeper and saves him from certain fading due to grief. Love blossoms between the unlikely couple as the great events of the ring War are about to unfold. Features Legolas as Thranduil's love child rather than a legitimate heir.

**Cuthenin (True-Bow)  
by F.E.Morton**  
Beta'd by **Digdigil**. Much thanks, mellonen! Remaining errors are all mine, as they ever were.  
  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.  
  
 _thoughts_  
(elvish translations)  


* * *

**Canthui Peth: Gannen Nedhened (Part Four: Caught in the Middle)**  
  
"…brazenly escorted his latest quarry to the family spa, flaunting him right before my face. Well does Glorfindel know my habits and at what time I may be found there."  
  
"Mayhap he forgot. What is the silvan like? I heard he is fair of face and fierce of mien."  
  
"Fair enough, but he was not very bold when I saw him. The Wood Elf is all enormous blue eyes and yellow hair, just like a certain Galadhrim warden who should be lashed for his bold effrontery. No slight intended upon the grandeur of your flaxen mane, Lindir."  
  
"Nay, no insult is taken, Gildirn (Star-gazer - a nick-name for Erestor). I am Sindarin, as well you know, and my colour derives from my father's distant connection to the Vanyar. But pray continue; what more did you note other than the hue of his tresses?"  
  
"I saw everything and there was nothing unusual about his physique, if that is what you want to know. Well formed and properly proportioned, yet he is too slight for my taste and small enough to be called short. If not for all the barbaric tattoos one might mistake him for an elfling on the cusp of maturity. In fact, the messenger is probably younger than Estel."  
  
"Surely not! Aragorn is only eighty-seven years old; even were the silvan twice that he would be little more than a babe."  
  
"I cannot be sure of the exact number of coranar (years), but he barely looks old enough to be off the breast much less running around in the wilds."  
  
"I thought you did not like him; now you sound as if you would make a play for the youth. Is that your plan, Erestor? Will you vie against your former love for the rodwen vaethor (virgin warrior)?"  
  
The two elves sat in the comfort of a cluttered den filled with books and parchment scrolls, maps and architectural diagrams, charts of the heavens, a globe or two and several well-crafted telescopes and spyglasses of assorted sizes and powers of magnification. It was overall a brown room; seemingly every shade of the colour was represented, from stark tan where the sun's gleam polished the pinewood floor to the rich mahogany and walnut of the elegantly formed furniture.  
  
There was a desk, overflowing with documents and scrolls, ink and quills, ledgers and log books enough to require a month's diligent perusal to clear away. The chair tucked behind it was massive, upholstered in tough deer hide stained almost black, patched and repaired; its padded seat compressed into a perfect cast of its owner's rear. Bookcases lined the inner walls of the workroom and defined a narrow chimney with a grate only large enough to burn coal inside it. The shelves, stuffed with tomes, remained the only tidy, organised component of the suite. A collection of less formal chairs and sofas occupied an alcove just beside the fireplace. This hearth dually served the bedroom behind the wall it filled.  
  
Erestor's cloverleaf shaped apartment was situated at the topmost story of the Last Homely House.  Where the long winding staircase ended was a triangular foyer. Three doors led from this landing: one to a small bedchamber, the second to the cluttered office, and the third opened on the room between them. This space was relegated to housing a most magnificent observatory.  
  
The ceiling of the central, high-domed chamber was made of curved, heavily leaded, overlapping glass panes. These were hinged at their bases and could be opened out and laid flat upon the surrounding roof like the petals of a flower. An ingenious platform occupied the floor beneath this unusual skylight and mounted on this was a tremendous telescope. Due to a series of cleverly designed levers and gears, the optical masterpiece could be raised up through the opening with unbelievable ease and trained in any direction upon the heavens.  
  
Once lifted to its full height, the platform came level with a broad circular, railed walkway. Utilising this, an observer could point and manipulate the telescope into any angle or direction. The star-gazing device was Erestor's pride and joy, for there was no other like it anywhere in Middle-earth, nor in Aman, he believed. Upon this highest point in the valley's centre, the Noldo Lord spent his nights, examining the movements of the stars and mapping their circular tracks.  
  
He was not so engaged at this hour of the day, however. Having returned from his interrupted bath, Erestor had reported briefly to Elrond what he had observed of the silvan's identity and then sought for the company of his good friend Lindir in order to share a more descriptive recitation of his impressions. He was sprawled across an overstuffed leather armchair the colour of nutmeg, absently twirling a wineglass in his fingers. Lindir sat primly on the long matching sofa, feet resting on an embroidered footstool, as he sipped from his own goblet, peering in speculative amusement at his agitated friend.  
  
"I had not thought of that," mused the Noldo, eyes narrowing to a predatory slit of eerie lightlessness. Lindir lifted his brows and opened his mouth to respond when a rap on the door both belayed his remark and preceded the entry of a formally clad servant.  
  
"My Lord, Hîren Elrond (Lord Elrond) asks for your presence in his study," stated the young page with a stiff bow that ended in an abrupt step back as the ebony-haired Noldo leaped from his seat.  
  
"Le hantëan; return to your duties, Lochgaer," (Red Ringlet) answered Erestor, already moving toward the door. "I shall endeavour to complete the trite little tale for you another time, Lindir. Perhaps Elrond has more news of the messenger's mission."  
  
"I look forward to it! Yet I may be occupied later this day. I shall seek you out if I chance upon any interesting observations of my own in the meantime," replied the minstrel, rising to accompany his friend from the suite. Yet Lindir found he was unwilling to move at the speedy pace set by the Noldo Lord and soon Erestor and the page were out of sight.  
  
A low murmur of voices engaged in serious discussion met Erestor's ears as he reached the hallway of the Elven Lord's private apartment. The study door stood ajar and the advisor barely paused to knock before pushing through it and striding forth into the room. He spied Elrond standing on the balcony overlooking the western sky and the high craggy cliff of the shielding wall. The scion of Eärendil turned to acknowledge his kinsman with a slight nod but did not stop speaking.  
  
"…are convinced the injuries are no longer a threat the archer's health? I do not want to force the issue with him but neither would I knowingly send a courier back over the mountains in less than hardy constitution."  
  
"Aye, the wounds are healed, not entirely so, but no longer is the poison retarding the body's natural ability to complete the process. With a short respite, the Wood Elf should be ready for anything." It was Glorfindel who answered, of course. He eyed the Chief Advisor with cold appraisal.  
  
"Oh, but surely he had those wounds when he defeated the band of Orcs hiding along the North Road," Erestor sneered. "I am certain we need not spare any worry for his ability to survive the return journey."  
  
"Nay, it is one thing for the archer to have battled his way through, wounded and exhausted but driven by desperate necessity, and quite another for me to deliver him into it again without assuring his strength is fully renewed," admonished Elrond with a sharp look at his kinsman.  
  
"As you say, Lord," the advisor acquiesced.  
  
"Erestor, I have asked you here to refresh my memory on the matter of Thranduil's family. Please, be seated." Elrond indicated a chair near Glorfindel, "What intelligence do we have on the number and ages of his offspring?" and got right to the point.  
  
"Ah, so Glorfindel has confirmed the nature of those artful decorations? What tales we have on the history of the latter generations of Oropher's House are not very reliable. Other than the births of Thranduil's two sons, one shortly after his arrival in Greenwood and a second following the dreadful losses at Dagorlad, nothing more can be ascribed to fact." Erestor sat as he spoke, ignoring the Vanyarin warrior. "However, his wife-mate is believed departed for Mandos many centuries ago, a victim of poisoning from the encroachment of the spiders at the end of Sîdh Tirithbant (Watchful Peace). This silvan messenger, marked as a third son, is most likely some bastard got on a serving girl or a courtesan, perhaps."  
  
"Tell me, Erestor, what is it that makes you so vile of temper these days?" demanded Glorfindel in indignation, for this was by far the worst slur the Noldo had made upon the Wood Elf's personage yet. "Yon messenger has never harmed you, of this I am certain. Is it the connection to Thranduil? Does your bitterness stem from the…"  
  
"My vileness, Glorfindel, my bitterness? What talk is this of slander when you utter such to me?" Erestor rose, his face a livid mask of outrage, and loomed over the Balrog Slayer.  
  
"Enough!" barked Elrond, scowling at each in turn. "I will not permit your petty squabble to invade the tranquility of my domain. Be seated, cousin," he said and awaited the seneschal's obedience. When both his most trusted counsellors were at least outwardly peaceable, Elrond favoured each with a warning glare from grey eyes swarming with the fury of a gathering storm.  
  
"Yet the error was mine. It was wrong of me to even bring it up, for it does not matter what we may say about the messenger's status," he continued, clasping his hands behind him and facing the pleasing scenery once more. "Thranduil has made certain to declare him a son and that is that.  
  
"His age seems short, by both of your estimations. At most he would be in his seven-hundredth year, if he is the late Queen's offspring, and at least, well, that is anyone's guess. What say you, Glorfindel?"  
  
"Not anywhere near seven-hundred, my Lord. I doubt he is past his second century."  
  
"And your opinion, Erestor?"  
  
"I concur; I remarked to Lindir that he seems younger than Aragorn."  
  
"Nay, not so immature as that," countered Glorfindel, "but certainly much younger than any other woodland messenger sent to Lorien. I do not think he is far from his Coll o Gweth (Mantle of Maturity - Coming of Age), for he indicated he has not yet lost innocence."  
  
"How did you learn that?" demanded Erestor.  
  
"By asking."  
  
A heavy silence followed this pronouncement as Elrond bent such a steely eye upon them both that neither dared resume the bickering contention.  
  
"Then I doubt it not," declared the Lord of the Realm. "He is less than five centuries, probably little more than two. Highly irregular for him to be exposed to such rigours! The question bothering me concerns more than his age; why would Thranduil risk his own flesh and blood just to bring us tidings, even grave news such as this?"  
  
"From what Legolas has told me, it is more to do with insufficient forces to spare. I do not think anyone in the Greenwood is accorded special consideration, regardless of rank or lineage," offered Glorfindel.  
  
"So you believe it was just his turn to go?" Elrond's tone made it plain he did not believe this theory. He glanced over his shoulder and delivered a repudiating grimace complete with arched brow and matching, one-sided sardonic uplift of his lips.  
  
"Nay, I did not say so. He told me he was charged to see to it because he was involved in the events he must report. He believes himself responsible for the situation and its consequences."  
  
"I do not wonder the King found Legolas inadequate to the task, for one so callow should never have been placed in a position of authority," sniped Erestor.  
  
"You do not even know what the news involves! How can you make such a claim?" exploded Glorfindel, rising and pointing down at his former friend and lover.  
  
"I do not need to know; one look at him is enough to tell he is in severe disfavour at least from his King and probably from the silvan populace in general. No loving father would deploy his youngest child, one practically still dripping from the amniotic sac, on so doomed a journey," Erestor answered with smug satisfaction, relaxing as Glorfindel tensed. "It strikes me he was sent away to meet his death."  
  
"You underestimate his ability; he dispatched a goodly troop of vermin very near our lands. Every arrow found its target with deadly precision. He was not awarded his name for naught and no doubt his King is fully aware of this gift. You are deceived by your own prejudice, Erestor; all the Athedrainyn are small in stature and thus more youthful in appearance than their accumulated years deserve."  
  
"I bear no disdain for this Wood Elf beyond that which I hold for the race as a whole, and this is not bigotry but a justified distrust for their wisdom and intelligence. My evaluation is based on personal observations during the Last Alliance, not unsubstantiated hearsay or rumour," remarked Erestor languidly, smiling up at his colleague's irritated and highly coloured countenance. "As for the slain Orcs, there is another opinion."  
  
"Aye, as sorry and baseless a defamation as any I have ever heard. If some other elves of Greenwood aided him, then where are they? Surely even had they left him alone yester eve they would have resumed their travel at dawn and would have reached the borders before now," countered Glorfindel.  
  
"Far!" (Enough!) spoke Elrond with sufficient emphasis to cause both his advisors to drop their heads in embarrassment. The Keeper of Vilya eyed them both with undisguised displeasure, for he had long ago grown weary of the ill-feeling lingering between the two. Even now, when he felt the need to tend the injured hobbit, he was forced to referee yet another dispute and attempt to fathom which of them had made a better, or at least a less biased, assessment of the woodland messenger. From his perspective, the hapless archer had become trapped in yet another power-struggle neither of the counsellors could hope to win, for the goal of each was merely to wound the heart of the other. He decided to point this out to them.  
  
"It is an imposition upon me, personally, to be forced to extricate this guest from the cross-fire of your continuing contest to learn which of you is the most pig-headed and arrogant. Cuthenin will have much of note to report to his King, yet little of it will be favourable to our realm and people if this continues.  
  
"Erestor, there is no need to speak so harshly regarding this elf's status for, even if your thoughts explain his situation, how is this a thing he could will or un-will? Why make the son culpable for his sire's errors? Thranduil claims him, that shall have to be good enough for us, regardless if he wedded the mother or not.  
  
"Furthermore, keeping his station secret is not so hard to understand; we need not resort to assigning his motives to punishment and its resultant shame. How often do Elrohir and Elladan go forth disguised, lacking any indication, whether on their persons or in their speech, of their relationship to me and this valley? We all understand the reason for such subterfuge; far more severe would any reprisals be should my sons be captured by our enemies were their identities revealed. Far more devastating to have their lives held hostage in exchange for my aid in an unscrupulous cause, or even for possession of a particular article which I wield."  
  
"Your words are wise, My Lord," Erestor stood and made a deep bow to his kinsman, cheeks stained with abashed discomfort to be so chastised, and in front of Glorfindel at that. "I shall make no further reference to the messenger's status among his folk or his worthiness to fulfil his appointed task."  
  
"Well said," approved the Peredhel Lord. He turned his attention to the Balrog Slayer next. "Mellonen, your words say much to me, both in what you have spoken and what you have held back. I take it you have been entrusted with confidential communication from the silvan archer." Elrond lifted his hand to forbid the words Glorfindel opened his mouth to utter. "That is well; I am pleased you have earned the warrior's trust, for the Wood Elves do not give it lightly. Mind that you treat the allegiance with the respect it deserves, for this is the son of a valourous and noble elf, no matter what Thranduil's detractors may allege.  
  
"Neither will I attempt to pry beyond the limits of your honestly given word, as long as your intent is genuine. Yet I will not have an impressionable youth come to harm due to some unresolved issues between yourself and Erestor. If he is as young as my cousin's knowledge suggests, then Legolas is in a most vulnerable period of development. Should I deem it necessary, I will intervene in this budding friendship at once."  
  
The noble Vanya had turned the colour of a sun-ripened pomegranate upon hearing this and straightened his spine to almost painful rigidity. Elrond had come just short of warning him off a romantic seduction of the silvan, as if Glorfindel was set on pursuing the ellon for the mere thrill of relieving Cuthenin of innocence or to spite his previous lover. _Or both._  
  
He flashed an accusing glare at Erestor, for the advisor had obviously wasted no time in reporting to Elrond upon leaving the baths. It was likely his Lord's low evaluation of the Vanya's morals had spawned in the clever-minded advisor's bitter heart. The Balrog Slayer took a long moment to rein in his wrath over this oblique yet sharp rebuke. A deep breath allowed him to steady his mind and relax his hands, which he found had curled into angry fists quite without his knowledge. Glorfindel bowed.  
  
"My Lord, I will in every way possible honour the messenger's good faith in me. It is not my wish to see Cuthenin suffer harm on my watch, either."  
  
"Good, I am satisfied." Elrond paced slowly out onto the balcony as he spoke, absently twiddling one long tendril of his brunette hair between his fingers. "Now then, I think it is clear we should not spread the facts regarding his lineage among the populace of Imladris, for he does not wish it known and I see no purpose in assigning him undue attention. From preliminary descriptions, he shall receive enough of that as it is.  
  
"However, with the council convening in so short a time, it will be necessary to share his true identity with the elves participating. These shall be limited to the three of us plus Galdor and my sons should they return in time. Mithrandir probably knows all about it already but the mortals need not be informed." Abruptly he wheeled and glowered at Erestor. "Unless your tongue has been even looser than normal today. What have you said of the Wood Elf, other than your insinuations regarding Glorfindel's inordinate interest?"  
  
"I did not say…I merely noticed that he is of a certain type…" stammered the advisor, now as red-faced as the Balrog Slayer.  
  
"What does that mean?" fumed Glorfindel, rounding on the Noldo in umbrage. "Not everything is related to your imagined betrayal and unwarranted accusations against Rumil."  
  
"Silence!" shouted Elrond. Both his counsellors jumped to hear him raise his voice, an uncommon occurrence in Imladris. "I will not tolerate this. Cease this juvenile argument and attend to the matter at hand which, may I remind you both, is paramount to the future of all the free peoples of Arda!"  
  
"Gohenna nîn, Hîren," (Forgive me, my Lord.) Each murmured quietly, duly chastened.  
  
Elrond regarded them with such overt disappointment that their lowered heads sank until their chins nearly rested upon their chests. "Erestor? Please respond to my question."  
  
"Aye, Lord. It is true I have remarked to Lindir of Legolas' youth and beauty and Glorfindel's personal attention to his comfort. I have spoken of his tattoos and the name Legolas and of his relationship to the Greenwood's ruling House, but this only to Lindir and no other. He is not wont to spread this news, for I informed him it is exclusive."  
  
"Eglerio Varda," (Praise Varda) remarked the Peredhel Lord with dry sarcasm. "Lindir is probably the only one of your friends capable of discretion. I doubt he is the sole Elf with whom you shared your thoughts."  
  
Now Erestor wished he had a wizard's capacity to vanish into nothingness or perhaps a magic ring like Bilbo's so as to become invisible. It was too evident that the Lord of Imladris was cognisant of his propensity for tongue-wagging and was not unaware of the often spiteful nature of such converse.  
  
"I may have mentioned Legolas to Elamrûn (Eastern Star) and Ithil'wath," he admitted, "but not his relationship to Oropher's House."  
  
"Oh? Well that is surprising. I would have thought this exactly the kind of malicious rumour you would enjoy starting, knowing you were the author of all the unpleasant speculations flowing among the conversations in the Hall of Fire tonight," Glorfindel snarled in disdain. When Erestor's countenance became a sickly shade of moonlit mist, light dawned in the Vanya's thoughts.  
  
"You were reserving that bit for a full audience! Did you mean to publicly announce your scurrilous interpretation of the archer's legitimacy?" It was clear Erestor could not deny this as he remained silent. "Oh that is despicable!" spat Glorfindel. "And even with that insult averted, Elamrûn will spread your seamy innuendoes throughout the nobility and among the diplomats; word of it will no doubt reach the visiting mortals also! As for Ithil'wath, he needed no fuel to feed his unreasonable resentment for the Wood Elf. You have quite surpassed even your most vitriolic tattling!"  
  
"Indeed. Yet I have limited the spread of this unsavoury depiction at least partially, for I intercepted Elamrûn and cautioned him to hold his thoughts private. I can only hope he had not had the opportunity to meet with his cronies. As for Ithil'wath, I was not aware your friends included the lower ranks of Imladris' guards, Erestor," droned Elrond, fixing his advisor with the piercing light of disillusionment.  
  
"I am sorry and yet I do not understand all this fuss over an insignificant woodland warrior. It is not as if we have never made these primitive folk the centre of such jesting before," the advisor made a lame attempt at justification. This was a mistake, for Erestor's dismissive tone brought Glorfindel too near the limit of his forebearance regarding such prejudice for either Elf's comfort.  
  
"That is beyond tolerance! Do not include me in your sordid idea of amusement. As for this particular archer, the insignia of Oropher's House should be sufficient cause for catering more to his good graces instead of creating an enemy among the Elven King's sons."  
  
"Exclude me from it as well, cousin, for I hope I am not unmindful of the fact that Thingol is my great-great-grandsire. The Sindar are not so far away from my lineage and this elf Legolas carries that blood. He is almost a kinsman!" added Elrond.  
  
Now Erestor was angry, for not only had he been exposed as an incorrigible quidnunc but his words had been turned against him, made to malign the Lord of his realm. Additionally, he must endure this scathing denouncement from Glorfindel, who had long ago wronged him and never paid for it. He kept his seething heart silent, however, for he wished no further abuses to fall from Elrond's lips.  
  
"Well, it cannot be helped. What you have spoken cannot be unspoken. Legolas begins his stay in Imladris under notoriety but not debased as the King's bastard. Let not the gossips have that to chew on; there is more than enough to satisfy them when the accusations made by Ithil'wath are added. Am I clear, Erestor?"  
  
"Perfectly, my Lord," the advisor replied with a dip of his head and his eyes upon the ornately patterned rug beneath his boots.  
  
"Then we shall proceed as you suggested, Glorfindel, and refer to him as Legolas Cuthenin when among the populace at large," Elrond continued. "Further, I will have Legolas' report given at the council, for I am convinced, as is Mithrandir, that his presence is not coincidental. The Wood Elf is meant to be here at this time and I believe his fate now intersects with the Ring's."  
  
"Ai! He will not be well pleased to hear of this, Lord!" exclaimed the veteran warrior. "He desires to return home as soon as possible. He left his fallen companions in the mountain this weighs upon his heart and mind grievously."  
  
"It cannot be helped. I can little hasten the healing of Frodo's wounds, for Morgul poison is both treacherous and tenacious. Frodo will not be strong enough for the rigours of such debate for at least another day. You will have to find means to convince the archer of the importance of the cause before us. Say that I insist he remain, beg his aid with the patrols, beseech his tutelage in archery; I care not as long as he stays. As for this grief, it is no light matter."  
  
"True. He needs to find an outlet for the shock of losing every elf under his captaincy, even though these were but three in number. This was his first trial of command," concurred the Vanya gravely.  
  
"Most unfortunate. Mayhap Mithrandir knows something of silvan customs in mourning the dead." Elrond shook his head and frowned. "As for the loss of self-confidence, I feel you may allay that to large extent. He is bound to be impressed by the opinions of a warrior of such renown."  
  
Erestor could not stifle a scoffing snort at that remark and while he gloated over Glorfindel's bristling displeasure, he was not happy to have garnered Elrond's anew.  
  
"Yes, Erestor? You wished to add something?" The Lord of Imladris turned to his Chief Advisor, reproof in his cool tones and censure in his icy glare. "Have you any knowledge of the ceremonies in the Greenwood for honouring the deceased?"  
  
"Nay, the Wood Elves are the most secretive of all elf-kind. Those primitive rituals are not for outsiders. I do not believe any Noldorin elf has witnessed a silvan burial. No one from Lorien, to my recollection, has attended a funeral in the Greenwood for aeons. Mayhap Lord Celeborn would know."  
  
"That is not very enlightening," Elrond remarked drily, "and I doubt Celeborn would be privy to their ways. Nevertheless, I will give thought to Galadriel to inquire of him."  
  
Erestor could not help feeling irritated by the open annoyance Elrond displayed. To his mind, the Lord of the Valley should back his kinsman rather than the Balrog Slayer, yet never had Elrond made any mention in sympathy to Erestor of the broken relationship. Yet now he would protect the tender feelings of a common Wood Elf and mock his cousin's ignorance of silvan ways. How could Erestor be faulted for lacking the information his Lord required? Never before had the superstitious lore of the forest-dwellers been of interest to anyone in Imladris. It rankled that failing to understand burial customs of such lesser elves put him in a poor light. Still, he said nothing.  
  
"Lord, if I may, I believe the comprehension we seek can be gleaned here in Imladris," asserted Glorfindel. Both Noldor turned questioning eyes upon him and he continued. "There are certain prayers and incantations inked upon Legolas' skin that come from a place far removed from Greenwood. I have seen such marks on elves belonging to the House of the Tree, of which Galdor was once the mightiest Lord. He will know what needs to be done and I will bid him instruct me."  
  
"Truly? You are saying the Sindar which Oropher led across the Hithaeglir originated in Gondolin?" Elrond was intrigued.  
  
"Well, originated at Cuiviénen, surely, but journeyed thence to Beleriand. Many survived the wars with Melkor and fled with Turgon to Gondolin. After the fall of the city, these elves made the long trek back. A multitude was the host of Sindarin elves Oropher salvaged from the destruction of Doriath. Among these must have been a remnant few from Gondolin and they must have preserved the old ways, for Legolas bears the evidence of it."  
  
"Fascinating! I admit to heightened anticipation in meeting this unusual elf. Pursue that link and keep me informed of Legolas' disposition." Elrond voiced this dismissal with a smile and then met his Chief Advisor's gaze a final time. "Thank you for your input, Erestor; I am sure I can depend upon you to surmount personal reservations in order to accommodate the many divers peoples among us during this pivotal moment in history. The success of this perilous venture may depend on such co-operation, and our example will be an invaluable instruction for the mortals to heed."  
  
The two counsellors bowed low and left the Lord's study together, proceeding in stony silence along the corridor. At the juncture of a winding, narrow, downward stairwell, Glorfindel turned away to descend but Erestor would not let him go without a parting jab.  
  
"If you seek Galdor, try the suite reserved for Celeborn on the second floor," he offered, "though I know not why you need his aid. You no doubt have ample ideas on how to distract the silvan from his sorrows."  
  
Glorfindel halted and glared over his shoulder, yet he decided any retort would please Erestor and give him some sense of victory, and so he resumed his pace without further conflict.  
  
Now that was entirely unsatisfactory to Elrond's Chief Advisor and he was struck with the desire to locate the Wood Elf and see what manner of reaction he could raise from him. _Someone needs to warn the youth regarding the fickleness of Glorfindel's affections, ere his heart is wounded._ Assuming the silvan would be quartered along with the Lorien messenger, Erestor turned to follow a different passageway. As luck would have it, this carried him through the wing wherein the dwarven Lords were staying and he was waylaid by one of the lesser Naugrim chieftains. He was forced to endure a lengthy diatribe alleging effrontery from among the humans from Gondor and had to intercede in order to prevent a formal claim being lodged against the foolish nobleman. He was thus delayed nearly two hours.  
  
By this time Erestor decided he would postpone his encounter with the Wood Elf until after the midday meal, which would be ready in short order. He doubled back and ascended to the third level of the family wing, taking a back corridor that was a shortcut to the twisting spiral up to the roof and his private apartment. There was little of interest in this area of the house, for its rooms were mainly for storage. Therefore he was astounded to round the corner and nearly run upon the archer, leaning casually against the wall by the opened door of a small storeroom. The elf heard his step and looked back, presenting a cheek marked with a vivid, new, swelling bruise of deep violet. Curiosity was overcome by indignation, however, and Erestor could not constrain his tongue from voicing it.  
  
"This area is reserved for the Lord's family. What are you doing in here?" He demanded in condescending tones and nearly fell over when a second and then a third head peered out from the confines of the closet. The Lord's twin sons had returned at last and, as was their nature, informed no one. They stepped into the hall and flanked the messenger.  
  
"Well we live here, do you not remember?" jibed Elladan.  
  
"I do not think he was speaking to us, muindor, (brother)" corrected Elrohir. "We invited Legolas to join us."  
  
"For he has lost his pack in a harrowing battle and has need of spare clothing while his own is laundered and mended," continued the elder twin, gently touching the slashed stain upon the shoulder of the courier's shirt.  
  
"Mayhap you can aid us; where are the garments Estel outgrew in his twentieth year? We are of a mind that they will fit our guest better than anything we have in our closets," Elrohir stated and placed a hand upon the archer's shoulder in a gesture that spoke volubly of protective comradeship.  
  
Erestor stared from one to the other in open displeasure and included the silvan in his exasperated scrutiny. It seemed to be the day for this elf to be the cause for making him appear foolish among his kinfolk. He compressed his lips thinly and took a moment to compose his mind before saying anything else. He inhaled a breath and let it out slowly.  
  
"How generous of you both, and highly appropriate; I am sure Elrond would approve such kindness," he said awkwardly.  
  
"Kindness? To me it seems a simple courtesy and the least of favours considering what I have heard from the night patrol," Elrohir frowned, disliking his kinsman's cold attitude.  
  
"Well said. And I would not wish to unsettle the rest of the guests at mealtime by having them view the gory evidence of our mutual troubles," concurred the Chief Advisor, realising he needed to adjust his mood or stand another scolding, this time in front of the Wood Elf and from elves he had tutored long ago. "I believe the trunk you seek is on the third shelf at the back of the closet. It is the one with the painted scenes depicting the Valar and the Making of Arda."  
  
"Ah! Of course, that was in Estel's nursery. How did I forget?" laughed Elladan and disappeared inside once more as the others tuned their attention to the sounds of his rummaging. Elrond's eldest soon sounded an exclamation of satisfaction. "Ha carnen!" (It is done!) His arm reappeared ahead of the bulk of him, bearing a folded, paper-wrapped bundle. "Here, Legolas; I believe these will suffice. See, Toltharil (Fetcher) even labelled the set: 'silk shirt, white, six palms (1 palm = 4 inches); brown sueded leggings, eight palms; indigo over-tunic, six palms. These measurements are fairly close to yours, I would warrant." Elladan exited fully and stood beside his brother as both evaluated the archer's slender frame.  
  
"Le hantëan," said Legolas with a bow and accepted the package.  
  
"Nay, I am thinking even these are too broad of girth and too long in the shanks. He will need a belt of some sort," argued Elrohir. He shifted his hold to the archer's forearm and tugged as he proceeded down the passage. "Follow me, our apartment is just one floor above. There you may change clothing in privacy and we will deliver your tattered garb to the laundry staff."  
  
"Oh, I am able to tend to such things; there is no need to trouble the Lord's employees on my behalf," Legolas had never been catered to by servants before and was a bit rattled, uncertain if he was expected to acquiesce or demure. He decided on the latter, reasoning that messengers were not considered guests and the Lord's sons were merely being polite, for they could not know of his lineage and rank.  
  
"What nonsense!" retorted Elladan, moving alongside and taking the Wood Elf's other arm. "You are our guest and we will not allow you to work in the laundry while you are here!" So saying he smiled at the young silvan's uncertainty as Elrohir laughed merrily.  
  
"Aye! How our Adar would scold us if he learned of such. You will just have to adjust to our ways, Legolas, for Imladris is not like the Greenwood." With that they escorted the silvan down the hall and away, leaving Erestor to tidy up the disarrayed storeroom.  
  
TBC


	5. New Friends, Old Foes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounded and sick at heart, Legolas arrives at Imladris as Thranduil's messenger on the eve of the Council of Elrond. He meets Glorfindel and the two form a unique bond. Through the rites of an ancient religion, Glorfindel becomes Legolas' Soul Keeper and saves him from certain fading due to grief. Love blossoms between the unlikely couple as the great events of the ring War are about to unfold. Features Legolas as Thranduil's love child rather than a legitimate heir.

**Cuthenin (True-Bow)**  
by F.E.Morton  
UnBeta'd  
  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.  
  
 _thoughts_  
(elvish translations)  


* * *

**Lefnui Peth: Mellyn Gwîn, Cyth Vrûn (Part Five: New Friends, Old Foes)**  
  
Really, he had wanted only to be clean again; free of the grime of the bloody battle, cleansed of the muck of the road, scrubbed of the contamination of death and doom. It clung to him as close as his own skin, overwhelming his scent and tainting his thoughts, this vile film of evil, decay, and putrid detritus. He washed with relentless ardency, determined to lave every molecule of filth from his person. His hair gave him resistance, tangling in knots where clumps of stuff, the composition of which he feared to learn, had dried hard and cemented the strands together. He had already lathered his tresses thrice and was beginning the fourth attempt to rectify his mane's appearance.  
  
No doubt that is why he was overlong in the bath. That, and the hot-tempered water that never cooled, caused him to neglect the advance of the day, and thus he was just dunking his head below the water in a final rinse when two new bathers entered the spa. Cuthenin heard their startled gasps and fought to clear his vision of sopping hair and streaming fluid, blinking to be sure he was not imagining the people upon the pathway.  
  
They were short of stature like Dwarves yet not as rugged in feature or as solid in form. They were similar to humans in face and structure yet had ears reminiscent of elf-kind and feet the like of which he had never imagined. Broad, those were, unshod and covered in a fine, long mantle of hair. One was taller yet rounder and stared through shrewd green eyes alight with awe and delight. His hair, both on his head and his feet, was coloured like ripened wheat. His clothing was provincial and rather quaint, and he carried a wicker basket filled with bathing necessities.  
  
The other was far thinner and seemed the younger. His tresses were dark and all askew in a wild mass of curls and ringlets. In contrast to the first, he was bundled up in robes and covers as if convelscent. His serious face had the look of wisdom, newly bought before its time with the harsh coin of pain, bound within the depths of his fair blue eyes. Legolas was both comforted and saddened to sense recognition of this shared estate of shattered innocence in the steady if somewhat astonished gaze regarding him. He imagined his own countenance must bear a similar expression and attempted a smile.  
  
"Mae govannen," he said and then wondered if they could understand him. "Apologies, I mean to say good day to you," he amended in accented Westron that earned a huge smile from the taller, rounder one.  
  
"And a good day to you, Master Elf," he said and made a quick bob of a bow, difficult with the basket still in hand. "I am sorry for disturbing you; Lord Elrond's orders, you see."  
  
Legolas tried to follow this but was bewildered on two counts: first, how would Lord Elrond know he was still at the baths and second, why would he send these two strangers to retrieve him? He looked up at the sky and decided it was later than mid-morn but not yet noon. He considered himself quite fluent in Westron but this made no sense. He was about to ask for clarification when the slender one elbowed his comrade sharply while giggling.  
  
"Sam, he does not know what you are talking about! And it is rude not to give your name first; what would the Gaffer say about that?"  
  
This made Legolas blush in embarrassment for he thought the small person was chiding him for failing to introduce himself. He hastened to correct the oversight and found the round one had the exact same idea. Their words got all mixed together and neither understood what the other had said. For some reason, the thin one found this immensely amusing and started giggling again as he shook his head, hands on his hips as he looked from the one to the other.  
  
"Better let me start this time," he warned with a wide smile. "I am Frodo Baggins of the Shire and this worthy Hobbit by my side is Samwise Gamgee."  
  
"Mae govannen," the archer said again. "Legolas Cuthenin from the Woodland Realm across the Misty Mountains. I am pleased to meet Hobbits, for I knew not what Glorfindel meant when he tried to explain."  
  
"By the Old Took! Did you hear that, Mr. Frodo? A real Wood Elf from Mirkwood! I wonder if he knows old Bilbo?" Sam gushed, gawking with renewed interest at the head and shoulders of the wild Elf crouched in the pool.  
  
"Yes, Sam, I heard. But you know Bilbo did not get to meet any of the Mirkwood elves when he was there," said Frodo.  
  
"Greenwood," Legolas spoke the word in affronted aggravation. Ever had he been told the mortals called his homeland this epithet and now he had to learn the stories were true.  
  
"Oh! I beg your pardon!" exclaimed Frodo and bowed quickly. "I am sure it is not murky where the elves live."  
  
Legolas gave a small dip of his chin in acknowledgement and smiled to show he would not hold a grudge over the slight. "Tell me, why did Lord Elrond send you two to get me out of the baths?"  
  
"What?" Sam had such a quizzically befuddled look upon his honest open face that Legolas snorted out a laugh through his nose and followed it up with a high bright bubble of mirthful giggling. It was an infectious sort of sound and soon the Hobbits were joining in.  
  
"You said," Legolas tried to compose himself, "You said Lord Elrond ordered you to disturb me."  
  
The Hobbits gaped at him, then each other, and then set to laughing once more, Sam shaking his head and Frodo waving the air with his hand, trying to indicate the words had been misunderstood. They were pleased to see the Elf did not become offended by their glee and instead followed suit, snickering right along with them.  
  
"Oh, this is a right muckled-up meeting and that's for certs," gasped out Sam as his mirth ebbed. "And as usual it's my own fault for speakin' first and thinkin' later. I meant to say that Lord Elrond ordered me to see to it Frodo soaks in the healing springs and I hoped we would not be disturbing you at yours!"  
  
"Ah! That is clearer. Nay, I am finished. All that is left is to comb through my hair and I shall get on with the day. Please, do not wait on my account," the archer said. He made his way, on his knees for modesty's sake, to the step where his basket was still perched and reached in to find the simple tortoiseshell comb the Balrog Slayer had loaned him. Then, guessing the Hobbits would choose the pool furthest from the path, he angled his back in that direction and sat upon his heels. Bending his head low, he drew all the dripping locks to the front and began the careful work of disentangling the fine strands of gold, humming softly as he did.  
  
The sound of the Hobbits footsteps indicated his assessment was correct; they were as shy of bathing in front of strangers as he was, and this made him smile. Soon the rustle of discarded garments followed and after that came two loud splashes and equally voluble hoots of surprise over the temperature of the water. Then another quickly in-drawn breath made him freeze and cease his gentle melody, for he had forgot about the image spanning his shoulder-blades, now displayed for the mortals' inspection.  
  
The symbols and runes, spells and prayers, signs of his House and station; these he did not believe the Hobbits could decipher. Yet he found his heart inexplicably longed for these two not to make light of his illustrated body, and he held his breath awaiting their reaction.  
  
"I never saw anything like that," whispered Sam. "Have you Mr. Frodo?"  
  
"No, I saw some dark makings on a Man's arms in Bree, but no paintings. However, I think it is impolite to be so blunt about it."  
  
"Begging your pardon, Mr. Cuthenin, I was just so surprised is all. It is truly beautiful! It does not wash off even in this hot steam?"  
  
"Nay, it is permanent. I do not mind you looking or admiring; it is those who would scorn such that garner my ire."  
  
"What foolish sort of lout would find anything to scoff at in so a fine picture of Gwaihir, the King of Eagles?" wondered Sam aloud and Frodo nodded his agreement. "Mind you, I'm not sayin' I'd be up for it myself. I couldn't sit still long enough for anyone to finish it!"  
  
Legolas laughed at that and looked back over his shoulder to find both Hobbits neck deep in the soothing mineral water. He smiled. If the image was not truly Gwaihir, what did it matter? He sensed only earnestness in Sam's voice and guileless curiosity in both Hobbits' eyes. He felt more gratitude than he had ever imagined such acceptance from folk he had barely met would engender and wondered at this.  
  
"Le hantëan (I thank you), Sam. However, my name is not composed of a first and second part as is the way of mortal kind. Both names are equal and can be said together or singly, but neither need be prefaced by a title."  
  
"Oh," Sam nodded but his eyes shifted to his friend's for edification.  
  
"Legolas or Cuthenin, nothing more," Legolas added, a little red-faced for making something simple so difficult. He resumed his grooming and his tune.  
  
Finally he was done and with a brisk move threw back his head and sent all the long hair spilling back behind him again. With nimble fingers he gathered up the silken strands and quickly braided them back from his face. He approached the stone shelf and gave a short sigh, eyeing his foul clothing neatly folded on the rock. He glanced over to find the Hobbits watching him.  
  
"I would like to ask, if it is not wrong to do so," he began unsteadily, not wishing to insult the Hobbits, for they were guests of Elrond Peredhel not servants in his household. "I only arrived here this morning and I do not know where things are, that is the trouble."  
  
"Of course, if we can help we will and gladly," encouraged Frodo, uncertain what the Elf's discomfort was about.  
  
"Do either of you know where the laundering is done? I need to rinse out my clothes, for I do not have any others, yet I am wondering whether this place affords any privacy or not. Indeed, I have no idea how people here tend to such necessities, but I do not like wearing the grimy garments after such an invigorating bath." And only in so saying did he realise that he did feel renewed.  
  
"Aye, goes right against the grain, it does," agreed Sam with a sympathetic nod. "I'm afraid I don't know any more than you, for I've been at Mr. Frodo's side and he's been sick these last four days. This is the first we've left the Healing Ward."  
  
"Ah, then you are the one Glorfindel mentioned! I am glad to see you so near to recovery," Legolas said to Frodo. His features twisted in severe distaste as he held up his blood and mud smeared leggings to demonstrate his problem.  
  
"I see what you mean," said Frodo, sharing a shocked look with Sam. They were not unacquainted with the sort of troubles Legolas must have encountered given the evidence on the fabric. "Perhaps if you asked at the kitchens someone there could direct you. We passed that on the way here. Follow the path and stay to the right; it will lead you into the vegetable garden and the cookhouse is right there, behind the main building. Are you not staying there?"  
  
"Nay, I have separate lodging in the grounds of Glorfindel's home. Thank you for the suggestion; I will try it." Upon saying this he placed both palms upon the rock rim and immediately the Hobbits turned about to offer privacy as he hoisted himself from the pool.  
  
Legolas grinned, thinking he approved of manners in the Shire, and hurriedly towelled off and dressed. The leggings were a must and the torn and dirty shirt he had no substitute for either, but the soiled tunic and cloak he refused to don. Likewise, the boots were so coated with gory crud that he disliked picking them up much less putting his feet in them. He decided to follow the Hobbits' example and go barefoot. He gathered everything save the boots into the basket and lifted it as he stood.  
  
"Good day to you, Sam and Frodo," he called as he left, for he knew his footfalls were too faint for them to hear and their backs were still turned. "I hope we shall meet again; I would like to learn more about your lands and people."  
  
"Yes, we feel the same. Good-bye!" said Frodo.  
  
"Good-bye!" called out Sam. "We should have tea together this afternoon if you are not busy? Our countrymen will not believe we have made friends with a genuine Wood Elf!"  
  
"Very well, I shall find you this afternoon, then." Legolas lifted his arm in a vague salute, unable to wave for he was carrying the boots in one hand and held the basket against his hip with the other. He smiled back at them, amazed to find his soul greatly lightened by his short encounter with the open-hearted Hobbits; a pleasant contrast to his tense introduction to the Noldor of Imladris.  
  
The winding path was coolly shaded for much of the way and dappled light played upon the loam as Anor glanced between the leaves to watch the Wood Elf strolling by. Upon either side the trees sang wordless greetings in the soft rustling of breeze-plucked branches all aflame with vivid orange, red, and yellow leaves, for it was Iavas (Autumn) in the Valley of the Bruinen. Legolas inhaled to his lungs' capacity, relishing the crisp fresh air delicately scented with Hyssop, Lavender, and Buddleia flowering in some unseen garden on the estate's grounds.  
  
He was once more overwhelmed by the distinctly peaceful sense enveloping his thoughts, uncertain if this was the result of the relaxing soak or the new friends he had met. He decided it was both in equal parts and resumed humming the melody he had started in the spa. Indeed, his heart's joy was too bounteous to find expression in anything less than full voice and with delight Legolas burst into song. Indeed, the combination of the picturesque scenery and the amiable meeting quite prevented any of the grisly images of the long journey from intruding.  
  
Cuthenin ambled thus for many minutes, making his tenor a fair counterpoint to the Bruinen's rushing tumble ever-present in the background. It was a fair, capering song lauding the glory of the Greenwood but despite its being one of his favourites, suddenly he ceased in mid-sentence. Just ahead no more than three-hundred paces, the trail would intersect with another from the left. This he knew because it was not empty and he could hear the walkers long before they came into sight. Their tread was heavy and they stepped in measured unison, tramping along in single file. No elves were these, he knew, and prepared himself to face the company of Dwarves soon to cross his path.  
  
In chagrin he gazed down at his tattered clothes and general deshabille, unshod and half-dressed, for he never went about in public without a proper tunic and foot-gear. No one could even tell he had bothered to wash, save for his well-scrubbed face and hair. It was beyond humiliating to present himself this way in front of Naugrim.  
  
In a moment of panic he toyed with the notion of casting aside the boots and basket and leaping into the welcoming bows of the trees. He discarded that thought and resigned himself to the inevitable, for there could be no doubt that the Dwarves would have heard his singing quite clearly. _It would be far worse to be caught out hiding from them in the branches. What mockery they would make of me then!_  
  
Due to the cover of the foliage, he could not see them before the trails met, even with his sharp vision. They spied him at almost the same instant and stopped as one, all four of them, and stared warily as he approached.  
  
Legolas continued walking, albeit extremely slowly, down the path. He could not deny being inquisitive for he had not met Dwarves before, though he certainly had seen them passing through the Greenwood on the Forest Road. For nearly seventy years he had been assigned the task of patrolling this cleared strip of land, killing any spiders seeking to set up nets to ensnare unsuspecting travellers and dispatch the rare Orc or warg that ventured to do the same. In fact, this had been his first official duty as an adult member of the Greenwood's community.  
  
He had often shadowed the Dwarven caravans along the road's entire length attempting to learn the Naugrim's speech and thus understand their thoughts. He had never succeeded in deciphering the language beyond simple orders like 'halt' and 'hail', having no reference point from which to start. Never did he reveal himself, however, for such was forbidden and the journeying Dwarves remained unaware that their lives were protected by so skilled and stealthy a guardian.  
  
Observing them closely now, he recognised their style of dress and the embroidered insignias on their doublets; these were folk from the Iron Mountains. They were Lords of their people, judging by the rich textures and heavy robes they wore, yet each one was armed as if for battle and probably sported chain mail concealed beneath the velvet and satin. Such was the way for Durin's people, to be ever ready no matter the situation, as it was among the Wood Elves and this he approved, though how they could move, much less fight, with so much cumbersome weight always puzzled him.  
  
The one at the head of the line was obviously the senior Lord, evident by his foremost position in the file as much as the snowy white beard and hair plated in elaborate manner, bejewelled with finely cut gems and golden ornaments of elegant design. Behind him was a Dwarf of only slightly lesser stature and their likeness was so close that they must be father and son. The younger Lord's hair was almost the hue of the rust coloured leaves above his head and bound in identical manner to the elder Lord's. Behind him were two more Dwarves, neither as richly attired and though they were surely all of the same House, or clan as the Naugrim called it, they were probably more distantly related and served as bodyguards or advisors. _Perhaps there is no distinction between the two duties in their culture,_ thought the silvan.  
  
Cuthenin was now even more chagrined to meet Durin's race in such low estate. These Lords would surely know of the troubles between Thorin's folk and Thranduil. He had absolutely no desire to get dragged into a dispute over the Barrel Incident. He had heard all about it from his elder brothers who remained bitter over the lack of spoils carried back from Erebor after the Battle of the Five Armies. Of course, they always blamed the Dwarves and cursed the negligent workers who had not bothered to check inside the mysteriously weighty barrels dumped into the river that night. Legolas had not been there for all the excitement, having been posted to a long tour in the central regions, working to dispatch a particularly tenacious colony of spiders.  
  
He had drawn abreast of the group by then and halted on the path, facing them. Legolas set down the basket and his boots and made as deep and formal a bow as he knew how to do, hoping the Dwarves would take him for a servant. If he was fortunate and they were less than interested in court gossip, they would never know he was the visiting Wood Elf.  
  
Yet he was only fooling himself with wishful thinking, for the stains and tears on his shirt and the unmistakable taint of dried blood everywhere were sure indicators that he was not a resident of the peaceful valley.  
  
"Greetings, Lords from the Iron Hills," he said while still bent low at the waist, as that was the respectful thing to do in his country when greeting a noble and an elder. While the aged Dwarf was not his elder in years, Legolas had long ago been taught to show the same respect to mortals deemed young in comparison to elven standards but long in wisdom according to their particular culture.  
  
"Humph!" The eldest Dwarf grunted, whether in surprise or displeasure or both was indeterminate. "Good day to you, Elf." He let his eye rove over the unkempt, soiled clothing. "Are you hurt, elfling? Shall I send my cousin to fetch the healers?" His words were courteous but his tone was demeaning and he had made a point not to introduce himself, an overt insult among the Naugrim.  
  
Legolas righted himself quickly and glared in barely contained anger, growing redder with every passing instant as his fury mounted. He had not met with Dwarves before but his elder brothers had; he understood what the Dwarf Lord's refusal to give a name meant.  
  
"I am well, sir, yet thank you for the courtesy to ask," he managed to say in moderate volume if perhaps a bit strained in pitch and timbre. It seemed to him that the more polite he tried to be, the more rude was the response returned.  He smiled with chilly grace before gathering his things again, intending to go on his way. Before he had taken two steps, the second Dwarf called to him abruptly.  
  
"Wait! Are you not a Wood Elf from the realm of Thranduil?" he demanded in tones clearly indicative of certainty over this fact, thus rendering the question into a challenge.  
  
"I am. Legolas is my name, Master Dwarf, and Thranduil is my King." Legolas turned about and replied proudly, curious as to how the Naugrim had figured this out.  
  
"Hah! I thought I recognised the detail of those braids," the Dwarf Lord gloated. "You, then, owe a debt to me and mine!"  
  
"You are wrong for we have never met before this day. I have not committed any offence that would burden me with a debt to you or to your family," answered Legolas stiffly, silently cursing the cleverness of the Naugrim for studying the custom of his folk so closely that he even knew the design of their braids. He had little time to ponder it, however, for the Dwarf became incensed.  
  
Face crimson and dark eyes flashing, the younger Naugrim bellowed in outrage, shouting something in his native tongue as he sought to charge the archer. He was halted by the elder of the group, who grasped his arm and gave a curt command, following it with several more words. None of it was intelligible to Legolas, beyond the word for 'halt', yet he was glad the attack was forestalled. He had no weapons with him and the Dwarf already held a small throwing axe in his fist, raised as if to let it fly. He would have been forced to combat the Dwarf hand-to-hand and disarm him. While he was sure he could succeed, he was not so sure he could do so unscathed.  
  
The red-haired one gave him a long look up and down that made Legolas very uncomfortable, for his expression was filled with disdain and even dismissal, as if the Wood Elf was beneath him to trouble over. The Dwarf gave a harsh laugh then and shared another statement with his mates along with a swift and elaborate set of hand gestures that set all of them to laughing heartily.  
  
Now it was the silvan whose blood grew hot in rage, for he was not one to accept insult easily, especially when he could not understand the nature of it and had done nothing to earn it. His eyes narrowed to slits of glittering sapphire and his jaw clenched taut in his effort to master the urge to retort with some demeaning remark. For he could not do so, must not do so; he was here for a different purpose altogether, and once more his personal sensibilities would have to be set aside in the interest of sparing his family and homeland any further embarrassment or troubles.  
  
Then the elder Lord made a long speech, adding more rapid hand-signs aimed toward Cuthenin, and all of the Dwarves burst out in loud, belly-shaking guffaws. Legolas found that he could not let it go unanswered.  
  
"I am sorry to learn that the tales are true after all; the people of Durin possess little grace and their store of courtesy is in even shorter supply." Legolas took care to stress the references to the Naugrim's stunted stature. "Still I would never have imagined timidity was among your race's qualities; however, only someone fearful of a fitting rebuke would give low remarks in a tongue foreign to their intended target!"  
  
"Ruhksul!" (Orc spawn!) spat the rust-haired one and once more closed his meaty first around the haft of his axe.  
  
"Stop!" shouted the aged Dwarf Lord, throwing his hand back against the zealous one's chest to force compliance. "He is right; we see how the, what is the term in Westron? Ah yes, faeries. Or is it brownies? Which ever, see how the faeries are uneducated in the ways of their neighbours and yet remain so quick to take offence? My apologies to you, Legolas, Faerie of Mirkwood. We shall make all our insul…comments in Westron henceforth."  
  
The other three Dwarves were doing their best to restrain their desire to burst into laughter anew, for Legolas was starring with mouth agape at this unflattering slur. No one had ever called him such a thing before and he was simply too nonplussed to put together the fore-mentioned fitting rebuke.  
  
The red-bearded one pointed and chuckled with evident amusement and the silvan shut his jaw, drawing his mouth into a scowl and his frame up to its full height. He glared down at them icily but made no retort, determined to get through the day without engaging in another battle, either of wits or weapons, thus proving the superiority of his strength of will.  
  
Besides, they were four and he was one; they were armed and he was not.  
  
Legolas turned away without another word and, if an Elf was capable of it, stomped off down the pathway, his mood of contented happiness utterly destroyed.  
  
The Dwarves followed a few paces back, still whispering and talking among themselves in their strange and secret speech. Then they switched to Westron, and true to the elder's promise, pronounced all their derogatory sentences plainly.  
  
"He must be the one we heard about."  
  
"Aye, claimed to have single-handedly killed a whole troop of Orcs."  
  
"It is impossible; he could not even lift my smallest axe."  
  
"Well clearly he has seen battle for why else would he be so foully dressed. Never have I beheld so ragged and dirty an Elf!"  
  
"Oh it is possible; they hide in the leaves and shoot down their prey with arrows from a great distance above. They have little taste for real fighting."  
  
"Aye, always cringing and skulking through their dark and twisted woods, more like beasts than people. Wonder what this one is doing away from his mother, out in the civilised world."  
  
Legolas halted on the path and all the Dwarves fell silent and stopped as well. He turned to them slowly and stared each one boldly in the eye.  
  
"Be thankful for the silvans of the Greenwood, Lords of the Iron Hills. But for our 'skulking and cringing through the dark and twisted woods' many scores of your folk would have met their ends upon the Great Road. I personally guarded forty-seven caravans that traversed my homeland."  
  
"Hah! No report of such an escort has ever been mentioned by merchants using the Great Road. Your words are false!" shouted the rust-bearded Naugrim.  
  
"I will not be accused thusly! Think what you may but do not call me false in range of my hearing or you shall regret it!"  
  
"I shall think as I please and say what I think. You live up to the scoffing disregard with which the other elves speak of you: boastful, self-promoting, and untruthful."  
  
"Retract that at once or I shall be forced to demand either your obeisance or a duel of combat!" Legolas dropped all his burdens on the ground and took a step forward.  
  
"Oh, then I choose combat." No sooner were the words out than the Dwarf charged. This time his father did not try to stop him and the other three fell back a pace.  
  
"So be it." murmured Legolas calmly, watching intently as the small, compact form barrelled toward him. The ginger-bearded Naugrim had a small axe in hand but did not seem prepared to throw it. The silvan waited until the last possible moment before being run down by the Dwarf and then lightly sprang up, neatly leaping right over the Naugrim's head to land behind him. He waited for the raging figure to register the move, preparing for another attack.  
  
With a startled exclamation the Dwarf careened through the discarded baggage, stumbling over the boots and shoving the basket over to keep from falling, caught his balance and hastily wheeled around. He fully expected a counter attack from the rear and was surprised to find the Elf just standing there awaiting the next assault.  
  
He decided not to disappoint the immortal and with a shift of his feet to stabilise his stance threw the axe with skill and precision, aiming not to kill but to strike archer on the arm with the heavy handle. His eyes grew wide when again the Wood Elf remained frozen until the second before impact and then merely dipped his torso to the left a few centimetres, dodging the weapon entirely.  
  
Now the Dwarves behind them saw their danger and with rapid shouts that were likely curses dived to the ground, subjecting their elegant apparel to the dust and grime of the walkway. Fortunately, that is the only harm they came to as the axe sailed over them and landed with a loud thump in the dirt several feet away.  
  
This time Legolas did not wait, for in his mind it was the height of cowardice to attack an unarmed opponent with a weapon, whether the intent was to kill or not. He closed the distance between them more rapidly than the Dwarf's mind could accommodate rationally and in seconds had landed a solid hit to the jaw and another to the sternum using the heels of his hands instead of his fists.  
  
The Dwarf swayed and belatedly brought his fists forward to present a defence but by this time Legolas had already stepped back beyond the reach of the shorter armed Naugrim.  
  
The whole thing was tiresome, the silvan decided, and he was giving in to his temper, letting his emotions lead him again; a fault for which he had received frequent admonishment from his tutors over the years. He must end this quickly for he had already showed the Dwarves he was not to be trifled with and he had better things to do with his time.  
  
With a swiftness only slightly greater than his strength, Legolas once more leaped lightly into the air, spun once fully and on the returning revolution struck out and down with his leg, delivering a fearsome blow to the side of the Dwarf's head that sent him reeling into the dirt where he lay, stunned and motionless.  
  
Legolas waited not one second more, gathering up his belongings yet again and resuming his pace along the path.  
  
The Dwarves rushed to their kinsman's aid, exclaiming with loud alarm in their own tongue what surely must be the fallen one's name. Their words quickly lost the overprint of terrified dread as the unconscious Dwarf gave a low groan and regained his senses. By the time they had satisfied themselves that he was injured more in pride than bodily, the Elf was several metres along the path. They helped their countryman rise and hastened to catch up.  
  
Now the silvan had kept his hearing trained upon them and remained alert, wary should they seek to retaliate and attack him as a group. That would be most dangerous, for while one Dwarf was easy to defeat, four axe bearing angry Naugrim were a definite threat. Should that happen, he would have no choice but to disable some of them with broken bones and severe concussions in order to spare his life and theirs. He was suddenly glad he was wearing such ragged and ruined clothes, for it would seem he must stain the cloth with blood again. Thus, Legolas was stunned to hear not battle cries and curses in Dwarvish but hearty laughter and accolades.  
  
"Slow your pace, Master Elf! Did I hear the Noldor call you True-bow? That may be fitting in the elvish tongue but does not lend itself well to Dwarvish translation; we would say 'Hammer-Hands' and 'Axe-Foot' instead!" bellowed out the ancient elder Lord.  
  
"Aye! Well fought, Legolas Axe-Foot!" one of the counsellor/guards cried amid deep and jovial laughter.  
  
"Will you not stop, Hammer-Hands, and let us introduce ourselves? Are you not curious to know whom you have bested this day?" that from the ginger-haired one.  
  
And so Legolas did halt, for he was beyond intrigued and gathered that he had achieved some measure of respect among them, though how this could be so he did not quite understand. Thus, he held himself ready as they approached should it be a ruse and a trap.  
  
The elder one noted his tension and issued out another of his gut-jarring guffaws, shaking his head in amusement to see it. "Aye, you have been trained well, warrior, and that is no less than should be expected from the Wood Elves." Then he gathered his composure and stood straight, meeting the Elf's eyes with all seriousness. "Glóin, son of Gróin, at your service," he said and gave a short bow.  
  
"Legolas Cuthenin, at yours and your family's." Legolas' response was automatic, and it was well his tutors in diplomacy had drilled him so thoroughly for he was too amazed to think straight. This was not just a Lord of Dain's people but one of the very Dwarves imprisoned in his father's stronghold during the Barrel Incident. He set his basket and boots down to give a corresponding bow.  
  
Several low grunts of approval followed this and each of the Dwarves introduced themselves thus; they were Fralin son of Dwalin, Brór son of Nori, and Gimli son of Glóin. This last was the ginger-bearded one Legolas had defeated and he bore the evidence in a great purpling knot upon his temple that looked likely to spread and blacken his eye also. Yet he was grinning hugely and laughed loud, head thrown back and arms akimbo, to see the confusion in the immortal's eyes over the change of circumstances.  
  
"Well, lad, do not look so flummoxed. We Dwarves have our own methods of determining who is being truthful and who is being spiteful, who is worthy of esteem and who should be shunned. You have proven yourself more than a match for the dregs that pass for soldiers in Sauron's army," he said. "Never have I been bested by an opponent, be that Man or Dwarf, Orc or Goblin. You are the first of the First-born I have challenged, and I thank you for the opportunity. Further, I retract my doubts concerning your guarding of our caravans."  
  
"Aye and it is also an eye-opener to know the elves of the Valley are so short-sighted as to discount the skill and daring of their kin over the mountains," added Glóin, nodding sagely as he plucked a stray leaf from his somewhat dishevelled beard.  
  
"And so lacking in hospitable conduct, for were you our guest we would at least have provided you with clean clothing until your own could be repaired," said Fralin but then amended this slightly. "That is, once we had decided you were not an enemy."  
  
Now Legolas had to laugh, for they all knew it was more likely he would be detained in some dark hole in their stony caverns should he ever wander uninvited into their lands. That was to his mind no affront, however, for long had there been enmity between the two races and neither would expect anything less were any to intrude unannounced upon the other's borders.  
  
"I am sure of it, and at the least we would all understand one another honestly. I thank you all for your commiseration on my behalf, yet I must defend the Lord of this realm, for he is unaware of my condition. I am certain, once he knows of it, that some means will be afforded to have my garments repaired and to ensure I do not go naked in the mean time."  
  
"Well if not then allow me to provide you with a robe to at least prevent the latter!" exclaimed Brór, scandalised to think of the Elf running around unclothed for all to see.  
  
"My thanks, Lord Brór. I am on my way to remedy the situation even now. The Hobbits directed me to the kitchens and thus I must leave you good people. I hope we will meet again before I return to my home," he said politely and found that he meant it.  
  
Legolas was rather proud that he had managed to earn the regard of the Naugrim considering the bad feeling between his father and Glóin. He wondered if Thranduil would be pleased and hoped it would be so. _Of course, Glóin does not know I am the Elven King's son._ Yet Legolas did not believe that fact would change the Dwarf's opinion of him, for the noble elder did not strike him as the sort to hold a grudge except toward the individual who had sparked it.  
  
"The kitchens? I suppose the path does eventually end up there, but the Hobbits have sent you the long way round. This path leads out to the training grounds and barracks for Lord Elrond's troops. We are going thence in order to practice sparring for a time," Gimli informed him.  
  
"Ah, I did not know that," Legolas frowned slightly and unconsciously tugged at the hem of his tattered shirt. He had no wish to subject himself to further scorn from the Imladrian warriors. "Is there a more direct route back to the main house that you know?"  
  
"Nay, not now that you have gone so far afield," said Glóin. "It will take you as long to go back as to continue in this direction. But come, we will accompany you for part of the way." So saying the Dwarf Lord set out and Gimli indicated that Legolas was to take the second position behind his snow-bearded sire, a great honour for it was by rights his own place.  
  
Cuthenin could hardly refuse without offending the Naugrim and so he fell in line, settling his basket on his hip again and marching in step with the Dwarves, though his feet made no sound upon the walkway.  
  
A strange procession that was winding through the Peredhil Lord's stately grounds: four doughty Dwarf Lords and a fair silvan Wood Elf. All the way along Legolas prayed silently to Varda to let him pass unnoticed through the sparring fields and barracks, but in his heart he knew his supplications would not be favourably answered. The Naugrim had started a marching song in Westron, deep and rumbling like thunder before a storm. Even if the elves would have given no notice before they surely could not ignore so unusual a sound and that would direct them to this highly irregular sight.  
  
Legolas, resigned to his ill-fate, joined the Dwarves in the chorus for it relieved his soul to sing. That pleased Gimli, who slapped him hard on the back and nodded when he glanced behind him to make sure he would not need to repeat his earlier demonstration in hand-to-hand combat. Belatedly he thought perhaps he should have directed his fervent pleas to Vairë, but by then the broad open meadows of the training grounds had come into view.    
TBC


	6. Field of Battle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounded and sick at heart, Legolas arrives at Imladris as Thranduil's messenger on the eve of the Council of Elrond. He meets Glorfindel and the two form a unique bond. Through the rites of an ancient religion, Glorfindel becomes Legolas' Soul Keeper and saves him from certain fading due to grief. Love blossoms between the unlikely couple as the great events of the ring War are about to unfold. Features Legolas as Thranduil's love child rather than a legitimate heir.

**Cuthenin (True-Bow)  
by F.E.Morton**  
UnBeta'd  
  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.  
  
 _thoughts_  
(elvish translations)  


* * *

**Enchui Peth: Maeth en Hant (Part Six: Field of Battle)**  
  
Now the activity on the training grounds ceased and silence engulfed the various groups of warriors even before the bizarre procession came into view. Dwarves were not unknown in the Hidden Vale of Lord Elrond and diplomatic ties with the Iron Mountains may not have been strong but at least they were maintained. Many of the Imladrian elves had seen the Dwarves sparring and practising with their weapons on previous days, so it was no surprise that they would do so again. A few elves had even made the effort to engage the Naugrim and test their speed, skill, and strength against the endurance, might, and tenacity of the Dwarven fighters, axe against sword. Yet none of the Noldor had ever seen a sight to match this, for the Lords of Dain's kingdom north of Erebor were marching along the trail, singing with the Wood Elf messenger that had already caused such a stir.  
  
The archer's fair voice made a pleasingly harmonious accompaniment to the basso chant of the deep-toned Naugrims' tramping canticle. His aspect was likewise a striking contrast to the regal Lords and in every way was he their opposite, though not for the usual reasons. Seldom did one among the First-born present as lesser in elegance and refinement to the children of Aulë, yet the Wood Elf nearly claimed that distinction. Even so, it could not be denied that there was about him an air of bold daring and defiance, for it required significant self-possession to behave with such a calm and genial manner in so difficult a situation. He seemed to appreciate the humour in it, even if it was at his expense, and in a strange way this enabled him to retain his dignity; dirty clothes, filthy boots, wicker basket and all.  
  
Once the Dwarves stopped their song and broke the single file formation, the spell of stuporous disbelief lifted from the Noldor only to be replaced with a mixture of amusement and irritation. Many found the display highly entertaining and watched as the Naugrim and the silvan engaged in some sort of formal and elaborate 'fare-thee-wells' before parting ways, with much courtly bowing. Others found the Wood Elf's second attempt to make himself the centre of attention appalling. And as fate would have it, the undesirable sort from Legolas' point of view, Ithil'wath and his cohorts happened to be present.  
  
The Imladrian border guard had been relegated to the minor role of squire for the training soldiers, relieved of his regular duties in the patrols by Elrond himself, once the tale of his rash statements had been told. He and two of his cronies were not too far from the pathway and hastened over to confront the new arrivals, eager for a chance to avenge his diminished esteem. Seeing the impending confrontation, several more elves made their way closer to observe.  
  
"Mae Govannen, Lord Gloín. How is it that you have become afflicted with this messenger's company? Has he incurred your disfavour in some way?" Ithil'wath asked, making a half-bow as he spoke.  
  
"Good day to you, squire Moon Shadow," answered Gloín without bothering to be more than minimally polite. Of course this was a deliberate insult, for he had already bowed to Legolas upon wishing him a good-bye before parting. The wily old Dwarf was certain Ithil'wath comprehended this. "Are you acquainted with this Elf, Legolas?"  
  
"Aye, we are known to one another, Lord Gloín," Legolas returned as he once more set down all his gear. He could understand well enough how this simple excursion to bathe would turn out. "This one accused me of prevarication and self-aggrandisement. He is under my doom."  
  
"Your doom? Did you ever hear such haughty words from so low a source before, Ithil'wath?" goaded one of his confederates.  
  
"Nay, I have not. Such over-confidence is a serious flaw, Wood Elf. I need not reveal my superior talent with the blade; many here would be glad to explain whom you have challenged. It will be a mercy if you are spared further injury," spoke Ithil'wath, his voice soft as a serpent's sigh and as dangerous as its venom. "If you retract your charge against me and offer an apology here, before these witnesses, then I might elect to forebear delivering the public thrashing you have earned."  
  
"It is not I who have rendered insult and spoken falsely," Legolas replied coolly. "I require neither your mercy nor forbearance. Neither need I claim to assurance in besting you. As long as I meet the contest with integrity and to the limit of my ability, then even if defeated I will have at the very least gained knowledge of ways to improve my skill. Yet, it is you who must face me to retrieve your honour; thus, you remain under my power. Whether or not the combat is open to all eyes I leave to your decision, for I fear not the scrutiny of my peers."  
  
"Your peers? Nay, there are none of those here, Wood Elf; all your equals are back in the mountain pass," Ithil'wath was angry and cared not that this was a cruel thing to remark upon. Even so, his words drew a few chuckles and assenting remarks from among the increasing crowd.  
  
Legolas' frame tightened up in rigid wrath as he fought the urge to strike the oafish Elf for such a callous reference to the dead. Yet he did master himself, for he was soon overwhelmed with woe, thinking how he was here nursing his slighted pride while his comrades were confined to Mandos and their remains lay rotting under the open sky.  
  
"You would grant me greater stature than I have earned, on two counts, Ithil'wath. First, my friends died that I might survive and ensure the success of our mission. No more noble a sacrifice can an Elf make than rendering up immortal life for the sake of kin and country; thus, the measure of their characters far surpasses mine.  
  
"Second, your words could be taken to imply that I am peerless here in the realm of such legends as Elrond Peredhel and Glorfindel of Gondolin. While I am certain you did not intend to place me above the Lords of your country, others who do not know you well may not understand this."  
  
The Dwarves found this last part an excellent repost and laughed loudly while Gimli again slapped the silvan a good-natured clap on the back. They were not alone in their appreciation, for many of the Noldor recalled Glorfindel's warnings concerning how to treat with the unusual visitor and they did not like to hear loss of life so casually disregarded and used as the brunt of a scurrilous jest.  
  
"Do not denigrate the deceased, Ithil'wath. We all have kin in Mandos," scolded one.  
  
"Mind your voice for it has become disconnected from your reason," admonished another.  
  
"If you have any," mocked a third.  
  
Before Ithil'wath could express his indignation to be taken to task over the Wood Elf's sensibilities yet again, a group of three warriors drew close, having finished their bout, and the bulk of the crush shifted respectfully aside to let them through to the front. In the Greenwood, this trio would be as odd a group as the Dwarves and their unlikely new friend, yet in the other elven countries and even among the humans in the northern reaches of Eriador, they were a well-known sight.  
  
Two were Elf-kind, tall and fair with burnished ebony hair that seemed to absorb the gleam of Anor's rays and then jealously refused to let it go so glossy was its sheen. They were bold in manner and within their pale grey eyes resided both wisdom and ferocity while about them was an aura of mastery such that only noble Lords possess. To look upon one was to behold the second, for they were identical in every way, each brother mirroring his sibling in stature, strength, and splendour. They were dressed for battle and the bright glint of a mithril hauberk could just be discerned at their necks. Belted at their waists were great broadswords and the leather scabbards concealing the lethal blades were darkly stained from long exposure to the residue of hunting Orcs. These were the twin sons of Elrond Half-elven, Elladan and Elrohir.  
  
Between them stood a Man, not as great in height but nearly so, broader through the chest and with full-muscled arms that revealed a strength uncommon among the Second-born of Iluvatar. He did not keep his chestnut locks so long nor were the tresses as neatly combed and braided as his elven comrades, for the human had about him a peculiar air of wildness and authority mixed together. The feral half seemed to have the upper hand, as if he could not be bothered with such refinements and delicacies as plating and adorning his hair or scraping away several days growth of a straggly beard. Deep-set and disturbing were his eyes, for they carried a look of determined urgency, stubborn assurance, and sorrow. Like his companions, he wore a heavy sword at his hip and was dressed for war. The sweat on his brow showed he had just finished a strenuous sparring match.  
  
"Well said, silvan," spoke one of the twins, his voice quiet yet packed with the might of his rank and station. "You are the one we have heard about, called True-Bow?"  
  
"I am, Lord," answered the archer, once more making as respectful a bow as he could, realising who these two elves were by description and reputation. Many stories of them were carried back to Greenwood by Athedrainyn to Lothlorien, for the sons of Elrond were also the grandsons of Galadriel, Lady of Light, and were often under the Mallorn leaves. "Yet I am also named Legolas in my homeland and that is my mother-name. I would be pleased for you to refer to me thus."  
  
"So it shall be. Yet do not call me Lord," laughed the noble descendent of Melian and Thingol. "I am Elladan and here is Elrohir. Beside us is our younger brother Aragorn."  
  
"Aye, well met, Legolas. These two are purely rogues; no need to offer such deep obeisance," the human smiled as he said it and neatly ducked Elrohir's quickly moving hand so that the attempted cuffing landed on Elladan's neck instead.  
  
"Ai! Mind your target, muindor (brother)," admonished Elladan, slapping back.  
  
"Gohenoch nin. (Sorry.)" Elrohir shrugged and accepted the hit gracefully. He turned his attention to the visiting silvan. "Do not listen to Aragorn, Legolas, he is an uncouth Ranger of the North. He will only tarnish your grace and teach you the inestimable skills of spitting and belching."  
  
"Fie! Do not defame my mother; she showed me how to act in proper company, Elrohir," retorted the man.  
  
Now as this amiable banter was progressing Ithil'wath was fuming in silent wrath, for he understood that the Lord's sons sought to defuse the ambivalent mood and distract the throng from his conflict with the Wood Elf. If they had their way, they would lead the messenger off before the duel could begin. This he would not abide, for he was determined to teach the upstart his place and reclaim his honour among his fellows.  
  
"Your presence is a blessing," he spoke up. "What better judges to referee the match than Elladan, Elrohir, and Aragorn the Dúnadan."  
  
"Perhaps," Aragorn's eyes narrowed to wary slits as he regarded Ithil'wath, for he did not like the things he had heard the Elf say in describing the new-comer to the valley. "Yet we are also citizens of Imladris and thus may seem biased to some. I am thinking this contest should be judged by someone without ties to either realm."  
  
"Who would that be, one of your Ranger cohorts or a Man from Gondor?" scoffed Ithil'wath.  
  
"And why not? Do you imply a Man is not worthy to gauge your skill and determine the fairness of the combatants' moves?" demanded Elladan.  
  
"Nay, I did not say so," objected the guard, remembering a little behind his tactless tongue that the twins claimed edain heritage.  
  
"Besides, none of the other men are present. To argue over their ability is pointless," stated one of the other Noldor guards.  
  
"A fitting reason not to force this contest's commencement this morn. Better to wait for afternoon or even on the morrow," counselled Elrohir.  
  
Many in the throng murmured agreement yet an equal number complained, for they wished to see how the lowly silvan would comport himself against one of their best swordsmen.  
  
"Nay, I wish to conclude this event as quickly as I may." Legolas interrupted. "There are other matters that demand my attention and I must not allow so small a thing as a personal affront to interfere. Better to meet my challenger now; indeed, I appreciate the chance to test my skills and the combat methods of my people against one of Imladris' warriors. Mayhap there is much to learn from it."  
  
"The silvan speaks truthfully," Gimli nodded, his dark eyes twinkling with glee as he delicately touched the prominent lump on his temple. He knew well that the Noldo was likely to be the one doing the learning. "It is unwise to assume too much when considering an opponent's skills."  
  
The collected elves traded uncertain expressions and remarks between them, for none were clear whether the Dwarf was admonishing Ithil'wath or the Wood Elf.  
  
"I know my own skill, and that is sufficient," said Ithil'wath tersely.  
  
"Then put it to use now and reclaim your place among the guards," suggested one of the onlookers. "What say you, Legolas? Will you agree to have the Lord's sons judge the contest?"  
  
"An excellent idea," boomed out Fralin with great gusto and strode forward between the two combatants before the silvan could answer. "Yet, if all parties agree, a referee can be had whose home lies outside the borders of either elven realm. We Dwarves will offer to oversee the match, being impartial to either side."  
  
"What?" Ithil'wath snorted in disdain. "I do not know if Naugrim would be able to tell whether the Wood Elf was fighting honourably or not."  
  
"Your lack of confidence in our sagacity is expected but regrettable none the less," said Gloín indignantly. "That being the case, a simple remedy can be suggested. State the rules of the contest clearly so that none may claim to ignorance after the fact should an illegal move be made."  
  
"That is both fair and logical," Elrohir said, nodding thoughtfully. "I say the Dwarves will make excellent judges. What are your thoughts, Legolas?"  
  
"I have no objection, for the Lords of the Iron Mountain have already demonstrated their scruples and sportsmanship to my satisfaction," he said, grinning at Gimli, and all the elves wondered at the meaning of his words.  
  
"Excellent! I shall excuse myself and my son. Let Brór and Fralin adjudicate the duel," added Gloín, nodding to his kinsmen with a decidedly conspiratorial demeanour filling his gaze.  
  
"So be it," replied Ithil'wath in undisguised displeasure. "Who will lend this Wood Elf a weapon?"  
  
"I will." Elladan stepped up and unsheathed his sword with speed born of long centuries practise. This initial ring of the metal was as a death knell for those enemies of Imladris fated to hear it, yet in the quiet of the autumn morn it sang out in a nearly joyful note. He held the hilt for Legolas to take and smiled reassurance at the uncertain expression that met his eyes.  
  
"Le Hantëan! (Thank you!)" exclaimed Legolas. "I am grieved to have to decline, Lord Elladan." He had no wish to insult his host and it was clear to all that to refuse caused him severe distress.  
  
"Why so?" asked the Orc-slayer kindly, for he had no doubt this youth had some concern over his worth to wield such a noble weapon, and hoped to drive out that doubt. He was thus surprised to see the silvan's face colour slightly even as his chin lifted in defiant pride.  
  
"This sword, elegant and virtuous as it is, presents too great a weight for my arm in its current state. I have never trained with such and thus would be placed at disadvantage should I accept your generous offer." Legolas was positively mortified to have to admit this publicly, yet better that than to have Elladan think he meant to spurn so strong a show of support. Predictably, a few snickers and some open laughter followed his confession.  
  
"This is not cause for amusement," scolded Aragorn angrily, meeting the mocking elves' eyes with his steely stare. He passed his healer's insightful gaze over the ruddy stains on the pale green shirt before meeting the silvan's chagrined but obstinate visage. The man decided he would not attempt to inquire about the archer's health. "That is a valid point we had all overlooked, Legolas, and I ask that you forgive such blatant disregard."  
  
"Aye, in my zeal to give aid I have given offence instead. Please pardon my indiscretion, Legolas," Elladan put away his sword and held out his hand to the Wood Elf.  
  
"No insult was given and no pardon is needed," answered the messenger with a relieved smile and gripped the warrior's forearm firmly, receiving an equal clasp in return from the Noldo Lord.  
  
"Then what is to be done," said Elrohir, "for we are all armed in like manner."  
  
"Let the combat be hand-to-hand," suggested one Elf.  
  
"Or use knives. That would even out the disparity," another jeered, "for surely the Wood Elf can lift a dagger."  
  
"Nay, that would then grant to me an unfair advantage," replied Legolas. "I am exceptionally skilled with knives and it is too dangerous to subject Ithil'wath to such combat. I have been schooled that once a fight comes down to daggers, the only end is kill or die. I am not sure I can entirely stifle this instinct, for it has been ingrained from childhood and reinforced in reality. I can guarantee that Ithil'wath would not die, but not that he would come away without serious injury."  
  
His voice contained no hint of boasting or vanity, no indication of bluff or pretence. Instead he uttered the speech reluctantly, as though it was not proper for him to reveal the facts of his realm's methods to outsiders, and this was true. An uncomfortable silence followed this admission of brutal savagery, a characteristic of nearly mythic quality so often was it whispered when Wood Elves were described.  
  
"Strange, I have not heard that Athedrainyn double as assassins," Ithil'wath finally broke the quietude and earned a smattering of nervous laughter.  
  
"That is probably because you have never deigned to speak to one before," barked Elladan.  
  
"Aye, and we should all be thankful our homeland does not require that level of expertise among the messengers," added Elrohir.  
  
"Or even among the guards," appended Aragorn. "Yet I have seen such things, for I have travelled through the woodland realm before in the company of warriors led by Inarthan (The Beacon), Prince of the Greenwood. Couriers do not only go between distant lands but from region to region within the forest, alerting each patrol to the others' whereabouts and circumstances. Inarthan's messengers were equally capable with bow, dagger, or hunting knife and necessity often demanded employing all these skills in a single battle."  
  
"True. First arrows and when those are gone, the long knife. Should that be lost then there is only the dagger." Legolas smiled as he dipped his head in gratitude, amused to hear that his eldest brother also preferred to give to strangers the name conferred upon him during his stint as Athedrainyn. The name was partly a joke referring to the pale cast of his long hair and partly a tribute to the hope and confidence he inspired in his troops.  
  
"Then hand-to-hand it must be," concluded Gloín.  
  
"Nay, I would rather spar with weapons, for it is a choice opportunity to learn the battle techniques of the Noldor. If it is permissible, I can suggest an implement with which both of us may be equally comfortable," Legolas objected.  
  
"Tell us your thoughts," encouraged Elladan.  
  
"There near the tree line I see a rack of weapons: bows, bundles of arrows…"  
  
"I hope you are not suggesting an archery contest, Wood Elf, for then you are surely false in stating no wish for advantage," interrupted Ithil'wath.  
  
"…spears and pikes," Legolas continued after the outburst, ignoring the Noldo save for shooting him a cold glare. "I propose we take two of the pikes and shorten their lengths."  
  
"Of course, creating staffs sufficient in length for single combat. I see no reason to reject the plan," said Aragorn. A chorus of approving remarks arose among the collected audience and even Ithil'wath could not produce a negative reply.  
  
"It is decided," declared Brór in a tone expressive of his relief that the long-winded elves seemed ready to move on to the actual fight at last. Not everyone had the gift of unlimited time to debate such fine points. "Let us remove to the other side of the grounds and prepare these weapons as Legolas suggests."  
  
This the throng did and shortly all were collected around the principles and the stand of weaponry.  
  
"You may choose first," offered Legolas. Now this was a gracious thing to do and only what was right according silvan ways. Yet it was also a wise move, for he had no information regarding his opponent's ability and hoped to learn something by observing the Elf's process of selection.  
  
Ithil'wath strode to the rack and gave the pikes a cursory inspection, snatching up the one closest to his arm's reach and carrying it back to the middle of the circle. He stared at Legolas.  
  
Legolas stared back but did not move.  
  
For a long moment more Ithil'wath and the Wood Elf remained in silent contemplation of each other, neither blinking nor moving. Finally Gloín cleared his throat loudly and the silvan lifted his brows at Ithil'wath as if in surprise or confusion.  
  
"You are satisfied?" he asked.  
  
"Aye, it will suffice. Will you not choose or have you lost your will for battle?" the Noldo quipped in derision.  
  
"I am willing enough," replied Legolas and approached the available arms.  
  
Unlike his opponent, he hefted several and tested the weight and girth of each pike. He also moved apart and performed a few cursory moves, spinning and jabbing with the long rods to gauge the flexibility of the wood, the balance of the shaft, and the feel of the grain against his palm. Finally he decided on a solid walnut dowel; it sang a soft, high whine as it cut through the air, a blurred arc in the silvan's hands. "This one," he said with a smile and returned to centre of the group.  
  
An excited hum of converse sprang up around him, for this was now shaping up to be a most interesting competition after all. Elladan and Elrohir exchanged expressions of amused and pleased surprise complete with arched brows and wry smiles. Gloín chuckled and nudged his son in the side.  
  
Aragorn, who alone amid the throng had fought with the silvans beneath their trees, met Brór's smug stare and realised that the Dwarves were just as cognisant as he regarding who would be the victor in this match. He had the distinct hunch that this knowledge was not due to stories told by Gloín regarding the Battle of the Five Armies, but something much more recent. His glance turned to the elder Lord's son and examined the fresh blue bruise, now painting one half of the Naugrim's face, with new interest. Gimli actually winked when he acknowledged the man's scrutiny.  
  
But Ithil'wath did not notice these things and openly sneered at the silvan's display while selecting a weapon, thinking this was a poor attempt at intimidation. The small, slight Elf was not equal to his superior experience and strength, and if not for his loss of rank in the guard Ithil'wath would almost pity the messenger.  
  
"Now then, I shall trim them down so that none may claim the staffs are disproportionate," Gimli stated as he walked to the competitors, axe in hand. "Our folk fight and train with poles and clubs frequently, for if an axe blade is broken or lost during war then still we are not defenceless. It is the custom among my people to trim a staff to the height of its owner. Do any here object to this method?"  
  
When no one spoke he faced the challengers and had them hold their pikes out at arm's length with the sharpened ends resting upon the ground. With a swift chop he cut through each near the bottom and when the elves lowered the shortened staves to the dirt each stood as high as the warrior's head but no taller. This demonstration earned several appreciative exclamations from the audience and the Dwarf bowed politely before gathering the cut pieces and returning to his father's side. Fralin and Brór took his place.  
  
"Now for the rules: No bones shall be broken nor teeth dislodged," started Fralin and unexpectedly drew a burst of laughter from the Imladrians, save Elladan and Elrohir and the Dúnadan.  
  
"Nay, it is no joke," cautioned Elrohir. "What is plain to us may not be so to those of other lands. I will not permit any further ridicule during this contest."  
  
This silenced everyone and the Dwarves continued.  
  
"Vision shall not be targeted, nor the ears or nose. A stun to the head is permitted within the bounds of these criteria." It was Brór who spoke these restrictions.  
  
"Hands and feet may be employed in conjunction with the staves," added Fralin and had to stop again as loud commentary threatened to drown out his speech. It was safe to say the Noldorin elves had not witnessed any sort of fighting remotely similar to that which was about to ensue. "Disarming one's opponent is not required to win, but neither does doing so constitute victory. Combat will cease only upon the yielding of one of the competitors to the other, whether by verbal request or loss of consciousness."  
  
That made the crowd as quiet as stone.  
  
"If any disagree or challenge the fairness of these regulations, let them say so now," called out Brór. Not even the wind whispered in response. "Then begin!" he cried and hastened to the verge of the broad circle, Fralin retreating to the opposite side so that they might observe from differing perspectives.  
  
All the elves drew back a few paces to give the two fighters more leeway.  
  
Legolas grasped his staff low in his left hand and switched it behind him as he bowed to his opponent respectfully. When he straightened, he saw that Ithil'wath would give no more than the slightest nod in return. The archer moved to the centre of the rudimentary arena and stood still, holding the wooden lance almost as if it was a sword, waiting and watching.  
  
Ithil'wath gripped his weapon more evenly toward its centre of gravity, his hands shoulder-width apart, dividing the length of the wood by thirds. He intended to use both ends and wasted no time. With a shout he attacked, dashing quickly forward and aiming a blow to the side of the silvan's head. He was shocked when the Wood Elf put up absolutely no defence and the blunt heel of the wooden rod connected solidly and loudly with the archer's cheek.  
  
A gasp went up from the crowd as the silvan went down, for none had expected Ithil'wath to land the first strike on his initial sortie.  
  
Now in the Woodland Realm such contests were common and this was nothing new to Legolas. Indeed, it was the custom during such sparring matches for the elder opponent to have both the advantage of primary selection of weapons and of making the inaugural hit. This was an effective training method, for it enabled the more experienced fighters to set the level of force permitted during the combat, preventing over-eager novices from serious injury or just as debilitating losses of confidence. No impact could be given that exceeded the first strike's power.  
  
This was not the way among the Noldor, for in Imladris opponents were paired by similarity in skill level and experience, with each testing and seeking to overcome the other, effectively learning their own weaknesses and how other combatants might seek to utilise them in the process. Thus, Ithil'wath had struck with force enough that he hoped to disable the Wood Elf while fully expecting the move to be parried. He knew not what to make of this, surmising the youth had frozen in a panic, and stood still for a second but no more, advancing as soon as he realised Legolas was not senseless. He smiled; it would be a sweet victory to fell his foe in two blows. He swung his staff at the bowed, golden head and inexplicably found himself flat on his back the next instant.  
  
Legolas silently thanked Iluvatar for making him the youngest of three brothers, something he never in all his years would he have believed he would do. Yet his much older siblings had been his foremost teachers in the art of combat and neither had cared too much about use of excessive force when they felt their muindor dithen (little brother) was growing a bit too cheeky. Many were the times Legolas had found himself laid out on the ground, desperately struggling against both of them at once. He had learned early that as soon as he shook one off and attempted to rise the other would knock him down again. He had devised a method for dealing with this sort of thing, not attempting to get up at all. Instead, he curled into a ball and literally rolled under his brothers' feet, making his body a moving obstacle to bowl them over.  
  
With painful sparks of blinding intensity hindering his vision, excruciating pounding crushing any hope of rational thought, and loud ringing obscuring his hearing, he instinctively employed this manoeuvre. Legolas careened into the charging Noldo's legs, toppling Ithil'wath and proceeding to recover his footing and centre his balance, all in a single, fluid action. Using the residual speed of the tumbling motion, he leaped into a high spin and let all of the momentum of his flight flow into the staff as he descended.  
  
It came down upon Ithil'wath's sprawled form, catching him soundly across the shoulder with a ponderous thud, for the Elf had sought to escape the hit and was in the act of turning over. Normally Legolas would have completed the attack by landing a bruising kick to the ribs that emptied an opponent's lungs of air, but he was still dizzy from the blow to his head and stepped back to recover his equilibrium.  
  
This gave the Noldo a chance to gain his feet and flex his shoulders, working through the sharp ache in the abused muscles. He glared at the messenger, surprised by the silvan's quick recovery, and advanced warily, for Legolas had resumed his unusual stance, holding forth the staff in a two-fisted grip similar to that commonly used to wield a broadsword. This time when Ithil'wath pivoted the end of his weapon up, thinking to give the Wood Elf a matching contusion on the other cheek, it was neatly parried. A stentorious clack as wood met wood resounded through the field.  
  
With the dropped side of his truncheon, the Noldo strived to impair his opponent's leg, hoping to land a hit upon his thigh just above the knee. He was amazed to find this blocked by Legolas' bare foot and with sufficient strength to send him reeling backwards. He circled the silvan, twirling the heavy rod hand over hand in a deliberately slow and casual manner as he closed the distance between them with each lap. Ithil'wath inverted the staff's position so that the opposite hand was now dominant, hoping to catch the Wood Elf off guard and deliver the disabling blow to the other flank instead. With a rush he shot forward and lashed out but this attempt was also stymied and he received a strike to his biceps in return. The hit evoked a loud cry of anger and pain, for never before had Ithil'wath been struck by an opponent who was in a defensive posture.  
  
Yet Legolas had done so. Instead of falling back from the advancing Noldo, the silvan had stepped into the driving thrust, allowing his weapon to slide down the length of the pike as he pushed back. Then he abruptly relaxed his effort, utilising the pent energy of the Noldo's resistance and acceleration to snap the wood against the warrior's unprotected outer arm. The Wood Elf was beyond range the next instant, leaping into another of those deceptively light and airy, spiralling spins.  
  
In vain Ithil'wath tried to prepare a counter attack, but he was expecting the staff again and thus was watching the messenger's hands. When Legolas' foot slammed into his cheek in exactly the same place and with identical force to the blow he had initially given the silvan, Ithil'wath began to see that he was not going to have an easy win. He was down again and a second strike crashed across the shoulders and checked his recovery. He groaned and shifted in misery, trying to right his topsy-turvy vision and keep his breakfast in his stomach. Once the Noldo was able to clear his head enough to see straight, there was Legolas staring back, casually leaning on his staff, regarding him impassively.  
  
He did not speak but neither did he need to; his posture made his intent clear enough. Ithil'wath was being asked to yield.  
  
That was enough to set a furious wrath alight in the Noldo's heart and he scrambled to his feet with a low curse, swaying as he snatched up his weapon. How it had been loosed form his grasp during the fall he could not remember. With energy fuelled by his rage he advanced, hoping to employ his strength and weight to overwhelm the smaller Elf. He laughed as Legolas hastily resumed his defence and once more fell back before the assault. Yet no matter what tactic he used, Ithil'wath could not confer another blow upon the Elf.  
  
Loudly sang the wooden pikes as each slice and jab was parried and blocked, each thrust turned aside, the moves and counter-moves no longer definable as single events so much as continuous fluctuations in a current of strife. The Noldo pressed for dominance, increasing the speed of his assault, and the clamourous staccato as the staves concussed echoed through the glade, a mesmerising rhythm of violence and intimidation.  
  
Surrounding the percussion of the duelling lances, the silence of the assembled spectators was absolute. Beyond that one involuntary exhale of surprise not a sound did the other elves utter. The Imladrians were thoroughly engrossed in the spectacle, for there was a stronger degree of ambivalence in this contention than in any grudge match they had yet observed. And they were astounded, for here was an uncivilised Wood Elf meeting his opponent with an almost disinterested detachment while one of their own grew hotter with each failure to take the silvan down.  
  
As for the Dwarves, two were vigilantly watching the battlers while Gloín and Gimli moved among the crowd, accepting the Noldor's wagers on the outcome of the fight.  
  
Legolas let the Imladrian come at him for some time, learning how the Elf preferred to fight, giving him subtle openings that turned into useful knowledge but never permitted contact with his flesh. One mark upon his body was all he would allow the insolent Elf to make. Soon enough, though his shoulder burned, his side throbbed, and his head felt ready to explode, Legolas had the Noldo's methods and timing committed to memory forever and he grew bored. At the same time he became disgusted, for this guard was not even much of a challenge for him compared to the sort of combatants he was accustomed to facing.  
  
Even in training exercises, Legolas expected either a second opponent, a hidden weapon, or at the very least the use of hands and feet as auxiliary tools. As soon as he realised the Noldo was not adept in such combinations, he ceased attacking that way, for he did not want the Elf to claim later that he had used an unjust technique. It was now a question of how to end the contest for both could continue the dangerously graceful dance and extend the desire to immobilise the other long into the day before exhaustion chose the victor. With his previous injuries still so tender, that was unlikely to be Legolas, and he was not willing to lose due to such a weakness.  
  
The deafening cacophony continued. Legolas drew back before Ithil'wath's onslaught. The throng of spectators shifted and re-formed their encircling boundary in concert with them.  
  
Yet he did not want to make the situation worse through humiliating the older warrior. He was representing his entire culture and the heritage of his father's noble House, after all. It only served the narrow-minded elves like Ithil'wath if he roused belligerence among the majority of the Noldor. Giving the other elven realms reason to resent the Wood Elves was not his objective.  
  
On the other hand, Legolas had hoped Ithil'wath would recognise his skill and change his attitude, treating him as an equal and worthy opponent. Instead the hard-headed bigot resorted to useless anger and pointless profanity. He recalled the heartless dismissal of his friends' deaths and fresh determination flared in his soul. Whatever respect the messenger had held out for this Elf, based solely on the Noldo's seniority and greater experience, vanished. It was time to end the battle.  
  
Abruptly Legolas altered his style, making his hold mirror his adversary's. For a few more moves he let the Noldo believe there was no reason to be alarmed by this, continuing merely to parry and block, swerving and weaving to avoid the blows aimed at his legs, arms, and head. Then in three hits, and in roughly the same number of seconds, he concluded the contest. The first assault landed a sharp rap upon Ithil'wath's knuckles that forced him to drop that hand from his lance. In the opening this created, Legolas simply stepped in and shoved the blunt base of his truncheon into the Noldo's stomach as he did so. The last strike fell upon the back of the head, exposed as the warrior doubled over, and deposited Ithil'wath insensate upon the autumn-browned grass.  
  
A mixture of elated shouts and low groans erupted through the throng as the gamblers collected their winnings or paid out their debts. Loud amid the hubbub were the good-natured guffaws and barking laughter of the Naugrim, for they had bet heavily on the silvan warrior while few among the Imladrians had done so. Great was the profit collected by Aulë's children that morn.  
  
Elrond's sons had refused to wager, however, and instead watched the Wood Elf closely.  
  
Legolas stood still gazing down on the Noldo, working to reign in his emotions and refrain from spitting in disgust. Yet he could not call this sensation satisfaction or any sort of pride in accomplishment, for he could only think of his fallen comrades. When the real test had come, he had failed to defeat his enemies and others had paid the price for it; not once but twice. In contrast, this victory was empty and meaningless.  
  
"Well fought, lad," chuckled the deep gruff voice of the ginger-bearded Dwarf. A third time he bestowed a resounding thump upon the middle of the silvan's back, this time with sufficient force to cause the Wood Elf to step forward in order to retain his footing.  
  
"I thank you Master Gimli, yet if you continue to show me such boisterous regard my spine will be too bruised to hold me up!" Legolas smiled down at the smaller being.  
  
"Ah well, I shall try to make allowances for your delicate construction in future," replied the Dwarf, grinning back. "But here is your share of the winnings." He held up a folded handkerchief bulging with coin and a gem or two.  
  
"What?" cried Legolas in surprised outrage, his smile gone. "This was a duel of honour and not some common brawl to be made an object of low sport!"  
  
"Is it unseemly for your fellows to back you, displaying their belief in your ability?" asked Gimli, completely bewildered. In his realm it would be an insult not to lay a bet in support of a comrade's skill, whether the odds favoured a win or not. His hand was on the haft of the axe in his belt.  
  
Now the onlookers grew quiet and wary, fearful that a new and more bloody contention might be on the horizon, and edged back from the Dwarf and the silvan.  
  
But Legolas gave attention only to the Naugrim's dark, earnest eyes, seeking to know if the whole encounter had been in some manner arranged by the Dwarves solely for the purpose of acquiring these winnings from the Noldor. _Is this the reason they goaded me into that fight on the path, so as to know which Elf to back in the contest?_ He frowned, for he had thought his impression of the Dwarves' good-natured sportsmanship over the encounter was valid. He must know, for if he had been used for their sport then he must demand yet another duel. To determine the truth he did something no Elf had done in many long Ages.  
  
Legolas crouched down on his heels and brought himself to eye-height with Gimli, meeting the Dwarf's serious stare with his disconcerted confusion honestly. If he heard the gasps, from Dwarves and elves alike, he ignored them entirely, focusing all his interest upon the sturdy, stunted warrior before him.  
  
"Aye, in my country it would be disrespectful. Mayhap in yours it is not so?" he asked hopefully.  
  
"Nay, just the opposite. If I have offended, I ask your pardon," Gimli said and made a courtly bow.  
  
"I see. Different and strange to me are the ways of the Lords of the Iron Hills. Yet I perceive you did not mean to give insult, Gimli son of Gloín. There is no need for apologies; we remain in accord," Legolas said and placed a companionable hand upon the Dwarf's shoulder before he rose back to full height. He gazed at the shrouded money still clutched in the Naugrim's meaty fist. "And I accept your tribute; this coin will be put to good use, securing the necessities of life for the descendants of my lost friends."  
  
Loud was the sound of exhalation from the numerous elves, three Dwarves, and one human who had been holding their breaths in fear of this simple conversation's conclusion. Both its principals looked around them in surprise and grinned at each other upon understanding the cause of the out-rushing air.  
  
"Well said! You do more credit to your folk than you know, Legolas." Gloín shook his head and laughed as he drew closer to the silvan and made as if to copy his son's ebullient gesture of camaraderie.  
  
Legolas jumped behind the younger Dwarf, avoiding the elder Lord's heavy hand. "I thank you, yet I beg reprieve from any more of this back-thumping custom," Legolas begged, reaching behind to rub his spine. "Mayhap we could just do as Men do and shake hands?"  
  
This amused everyone when Gloín assented, gripping the Wood Elf's fingers tightly and giving two jarring shakes. After this the Dwarves took their leave, marching off to find a spot for their battle practise. The crowd began to disperse and ere they departed many among the warriors advanced to offer Legolas their congratulations and, in the spirit of the lightened mood, each one that did so gave the human handshake to signify their friendship. Soon only the Lord of the Valley's sons remained next to the insensible figure on the ground and the messenger from Thranduil's kingdom.  
  
Aragorn bent to examine the status of Ithil'wath and, deciding he would suffer no more than a mild concussion and severe headache, called for two of his cohorts to carry him off the field. "He will be well on the morrow," he said as he stood. "That was an impressive demonstration. I have seen the silvan folk in battle before, yet even for me there were some surprises. That leaping kick is surely uncommon."  
  
"Aye, I have never beheld such a tactic either," commented Elladan.  
  
"I was taught by my father," Legolas shrugged, "for we share identical circumstances regarding birth order. Both of us are the youngest of three brothers, with the elder siblings many centuries senior in age and experience. Mastering such skills gave me at least a slim chance of surviving their loving attention."  
  
"Ai! Would that I had been so schooled," lamented Aragorn. "I am youngest also and had to endure the battery inflicted when these two chose to lavish me with similar affection!"  
  
"Nay, you cannot blame us any longer, muindor dithen," declaimed Elrohir. "Take it up with Adar; he should have taught you the necessary skills as Legolas' sire did."  
  
"But he was a twin, as you two are, and thus his sympathies reside with his elder children," complained Aragorn.  
  
"We had no control over that," retorted Elladan. "Cry out to Elbereth; mayhap she will hearken to your whining, for you will receive no apologies from me. We trained you well; see how fine you turned out under our tutelage?"  
  
"So claim my elder brothers also." Legolas could not suppress a giggle at Aragorn's expense, so incredulous was his expression as he looked from one twin to the other. "I empathise with you, Aragorn, yet I fear you are beyond the age when learning the spinning kick will avail you much advantage."  
  
"I thank you for your commiseration, then, for no one else seems to understand the situation."  
  
"We understand it, Aragorn, we just do not share your desire to lament over it unceasingly," jibed Elrohir. "However, on a different note altogether, I am wondering why our guest has been so neglected during his stay. That is unlike the hospitality of our House and I am rather embarrassed to have to point it out." His eyes travelled the silvan's dishevelled garments and bare feet as he spoke.  
  
"Oh, nay, that is not so, Elrohir," Legolas hastened to correct him. "Glorfindel has been seeing to my comfortable disposition but a pressing concern required his immediate attention. Otherwise, I would not be wandering about in so unseemly a state. The Hobbits were trying to direct me to the kitchen…"  
  
"Aye, that I believe!" laughed Aragorn. "Every other thought in their heads seems of food. Have you not broken fast at this late hour?"  
  
"Nay, but that is due to…"  
  
"Valar! That is unacceptable; I will have to inform Adar that Glorfindel is slipping in his old age," quipped Elladan, but he was now as concerned as the others and the three surrounded the Wood Elf. "When did you arrive?"  
  
"This morning just at dawn, but…"  
  
"And no one has directed you to rooms that you might change out of those tattered garments?" demanded Elrohir.  
  
"Aye, Glorfindel himself escorted me to the talan but I was…"  
  
"Talan? Do you mean to say you are lodging in that decrepit old flet in the oaks behind his house?" Aragorn was shocked. He was used to rugged conditions but certainly enjoyed the comforts of Imladris when he was home. To refuse the same to a visitor was unheard of in the Last Homely House. "What was he thinking?"  
  
"Of my comfort, I believe, and he was correct. I quite like that ancient oak," assured Legolas, desperately trying to get a complete sentence out before they started off again. For some reason this statement made the others silent and they were looking at him as if he must be mad, but he took advantage of their speechlessness.  
  
"I am only still wearing these clothes because my pack was lost in a skirmish with Orcs while coming through the mountain pass. My comrades were killed there and I did not think more of the other items left behind until bathing. That is why Frodo directed me to the kitchens. I hoped to learn where I might wash out the stains of battle and repair the torn fabric before I must meet with Lord Elrond," he concluded.  
  
"I grieve for your fallen friends," said Elrohir and reached his arm around the silvan's shoulder as he began to walk, drawing Legolas along with him. The other two fell into step behind them.  
  
"Yet surely we can supply you with something to wear while your garments are repaired," stated Elladan. "There is an entire room filled with clothing that Aragorn has outgrown, and because humans grow so quickly there is hardly any sign of use upon the garments."  
  
"Aye, you two see to that while I find Glorfindel and Adar. If possible I will discover when you are to have this meeting and arrange for you to take some nourishment before then. It will soon be time for the noon meal at any rate," added Aragorn.  
  
"Indeed. We will assist Legolas in securing clothes and then accompany him to the refectory, Aragorn, and will meet you there," decided Elladan, being oldest. "In the interim, you must inspect that talan and make it presentable. If Legolas prefers to stay there, then the least we must do is insure it is furnished hospitably."  
  
"It is fine, truly, there is no need…"  
  
"Agreed. We shall meet later, Legolas," Aragorn interrupted any further protests and took his leave, retracing the same path Legolas had used earlier.  
  
"Come along, Legolas," encouraged Elrohir as the silvan hesitated.  
  
"My boots and tunic are there on the ground," he pointed out the discarded basket quietly, but Elladan waved away this information.  
  
"We shall send someone to fetch it later," he said. "You cannot use those boots until they are cleaned anyway. Although Aragorn's feet are too large for you to fit any of his, even from years past."  
  
"Aye, that presents a problem," nodded Elrohir, wrinkling his brow in concentration over the quandary. They could not permit a guest to go unshod.  
  
"I will have them clean in no time," assured Legolas, attempting to disengage from the twin's grasp to gather them up.  
  
"Nay, we do not do things that way here. Guests do not fulfil the roles of employees in the House." Elladan took hold of the Wood Elf's arm much as Glorfindel had done while his brother tightened his grip across Legolas' back. "What think you of a pair of Arwen's shoes?" Elladan asked his twin.  
  
"Aye, that might do," Elrohir replied. The brothers were now regarding Legolas' feet with intense scrutiny. "Who would ever imagine that so delicate and exquisitely fair an appendage could be such a fearsome weapon?"  
  
Legolas' face grew warm in embarrassment at this remark but he could think of nothing to say in answer. He was not sure whether he should feel insulted or pleased. Imladris, he decided, was a very confusing place.  
  
TBC


	7. Way of the Great Wood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounded and sick at heart, Legolas arrives at Imladris as Thranduil's messenger on the eve of the Council of Elrond. He meets Glorfindel and the two form a unique bond. Through the rites of an ancient religion, Glorfindel becomes Legolas' Soul Keeper and saves him from certain fading due to grief. Love blossoms between the unlikely couple as the great events of the ring War are about to unfold. Features Legolas as Thranduil's love child rather than a legitimate heir.

**Cuthenin (True-Bow)**  
by F.E.Morton  
UnBeta'd  
  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.  
  
 _thoughts_  
(elvish translations)  


* * *

**Othui Peth: Pâd-en-Tawar (Part Seven: Way of the Great Wood)**  
  
"This is not advisable. Hear me, the practice of which we speak has serious consequences for those involved. You are not an initiate and therefore your participation is simply unacceptable."  
  
"Yet if the ceremony is not performed the Wood Elf will continue to suffer."  
  
"As would any survivor of such trauma as you describe. That is not sufficient reason to conduct a sacred rite without the proper kinfolk to lend support. It is not just a singing of songs, Glorfindel, it is a commitment."  
  
"To what? This archaic religion? I am sorry, but that does not make sense, Galdor. I can lend support without undergoing a conversion. The warriors to be commemorated are deceased and Legolas…"  
  
"Aye, Legolas. It is to Legolas this commitment would be made, not to his creed. That is why this rite is reserved for close family: blood kin or bonded pairs only. The young warrior will have to bear up until he returns to Greenwood; let his own people aid him through this."  
  
"I am not certain he will be going home anytime soon," the rough, smoky voice of the grey-bearded wizard growled tersely. "What is the danger in this ceremony?"  
  
"It is not any physical danger as you may be thinking. The ritual involves a level of trust Legolas has not bestowed on any here in Imladris. To force him to do so is both unfair and detrimental, for the other party cannot help but break this trust sooner or later, if only in failing to comprehend its nature," complained Galdor of Mithlond, First-Age elder and former Lord of the House of the Tree in Turgon's City of Singing Stone.  
  
"Are you implying I would betray this silvan's faith in me?" Glorfindel began, growing red of face and preparing to unleash his formidable wrath.  
  
"Yes, Glorfindel, that is exactly what I am saying to you, to everyone in this room," replied Galdor in stony tones that bore the weight of surety and silenced the Balrog Slayer. For several uncomfortable seconds, his assertion silenced the argument, afflicting the room's other occupants with the tension of its awkward implications.  
  
"That was a lifetime ago. Never again have I pledged anything beyond my power to grant," mumbled the mighty re-born warrior. "Surely that must attest to my scruples in such considerations as these."  
  
"It does, Glorfindel; we are not here to impugn your character," Elrond spoke at last, having listened with a grave and solemn mien, observing the participants in the unexpectedly tense discussion.  
  
At Galdor's insistence this impromptu conference had been called, for he had come away from his meeting with the Balrog Slayer highly agitated. The noble elf spoke now with such urgency that he must fear real harm would befall the Wood Elf should Glorfindel's suggestion be carried through. The Lord of the Valley sighed and rubbed his forehead.  
  
"Yet Galdor has a valid point. Whether you betray him through ignorance or intent, the consequences for Legolas will be the same. I believe we are speaking of something more than the bond of comrades in arms or between a mentor and his charge."  
  
"Indeed that is so," Galdor inserted. "If you do this, Glorfindel, you would be standing in the place of his family. You would become his family, in a very real sense, and he must accept you thus."  
  
"Lord Galdor, are you saying this rite would essentially bind the young elf to Glorfindel?" demanded the wizard, for once frustrated by the lack of directness in the elves' conversing, although such ambiguity was a characteristic with which most of his own expository comments were endowed.  
  
"Have I not spent the last hour cautioning against this? Verily, it is more that, in Legolas' mind, it is Glorfindel who would be tied to him," the Lord of the Tree spoke with reluctance and exasperation combined.  
  
"Nay, we have but met this morn. How would he think that? You are surely exagerrating, mellon vrûn (old friend)." scoffed Glorfindel. He could not understand the elder Lord's reluctance to aid the Wood Elf.  
  
"Alas, rather than decorating the truth I am telling you no more than is fitting for me to reveal. The newness of the acquaintance is but one of my objections. How can we ask Legolas to accept you in such a manner when all that he knows of you was probably gleaned from some romanticised account in an illustrated book in his nursery?" Galdor snapped and shook his head in frustration, turning away to stand upon the balcony, for they were gathered in Elrond's private study.  
  
Even among the First-born Galdor was considered tall and he had to stoop forward to press his palms upon the banister. He sighed and cast his discriminating eye over the landscape beneath his feet. Not for a full Valian year had he visited the son of Eärendil and his reasons for choosing this specific time to pay a call were rapidly becoming apparent. Perceiving that he was not the first author of the impulse to journey hence was neither unexpected nor disconcerting to him.  
  
He watched the citizens going about their lives, coming away from their tasks to share the repast with family and friends as the noon approached. Galdor noted the fair tree-lined avenues bedecked in autumn's fabric and the graceful gardens surrounding every house. He smiled at an elfling getting scolded by her Naneth (Mother) for making a tear in her dress. _Nothing has changed and yet everything is different._ There was a shadow over Imladris that had no connection to the grey-bottomed cumulus clouds filling up the western sky.  
  
The ancient Lord was not given to stewing in anxious apprehension; like Glorfindel, he would have action. He was here for a purpose and he would not turn from it. If that purpose involved the Wood Elf's destiny then so be it. His resolve strengthened, Galdor gazed upon the Hidden Vale again. The sound of the waterfall, far enough away to shed a soothing cadence similar to that of gentle summer rain, eased the noble's worry and he nodded with a short satisfied grunt. Whatever evil was stalking Middle-earth, Imladris was safe for the moment. He turned back to his colleagues and resumed speaking, noting with a discreet chuckle that no one had interrupted his short introspection. _Out of respect for my advanced years, no doubt._  
  
"This is not a matter to be treated lightly. If Legolas is truly an initiate, and from your descriptions of the indelible text I doubt it not, then what you would ask of him is far more than he is able to give. You have only just become flesh and blood, having been but a legend from a past Age; would you seek a hold upon Legolas' spirit none but his kin or his bond-mate have rights to claim? Can you not see this is detrimental?" Galdor turned to Elrond and pleaded the forest warrior's cause. To his mind, it was unconscionable to do this, for Legolas would relinquish a part of his freedom in sharing this ceremony under such circumstances.  
  
"How it is any more detrimental than if he undergoes the rites with, oh I do not know, a brother, for example," fumed Glorfindel.  
  
"A brother or sister is an excellent choice, already joined to his spirit. A sibling would know him from the moment of birth up to the present. They would have shared their entire lives and the place each occupies in the other's feä would not intrude upon the separate souls' growth. A brother or sister would not hinder him in future matters nor take anymore of Legolas' heart than he or she already owns."  
  
"By 'future matters', I assume you are alluding to his choice for a life partner." Elrond sent his old mentor a wry smile. Galdor's attempts at discretion were anything but amusing, for the fact that merely discussing the Wood Elf's sexual disposition was such a taboo was a serious warning in itself. Elrond did not intend to ignore or make light of it.  
  
"Aye. These are decisions that must not be made carelessly. Among the culture we are discussing, choosing a mate for this elf is a very private and delicate undertaking, one which his immediate family would mediate. Add to this the weight of his status in a royal House and the sensitivity of the situation is greatly compounded. We do not even know who his Guardian is or why he has come away without…" the elder Lord broke off with a gasp and had to snatch the railing to prevent himself from staggering to his knees.  
  
"What is it? Valar!" shouted Glorfindel, hurrying to his friend.  
  
"Are you unwell, Galdor? Please, sit and take your ease. Tell me what has befallen you," Elrond was likewise on his feet and at the ancient's side in seconds, taking the old one's arm and guiding him to the settee.  
  
"A vision! Nae, nae! (Alas, alas!) This one's fate has been overly harsh!" the Lord of the Tree cried and collapsed onto the seat, clasping his hands together and shaking his head as if overcome with dread.  
  
Mithrandir hastily set aside his pipe and raced to the long side table where the Elf Lord kept the wine and spirits. He poured a small cupful of miruvor and pressed the First-Age elda to take it. He was pleased Galdor did so and smiled warmly from his crease-crinkled visage when the cup was returned empty.  
  
"Speak of this vision, if you can," encouraged Elrond.  
  
"I saw the battle in the mountain pass. Specifically, I saw the death of one of the Wood Elves that accompanied Legolas. That this lost warrior was his Guardian is now clear to me. This changes everything!" Abruptly the elder Lord got up and began to pace the room, clasping and wringing his hands together as he did so, severely perturbed in heart and mind.  
  
The others exchanged expressions of wordless worry between them for it was beyond disconcerting to see steadfast Galdor this reduced to anguished aggravation. They waited patiently for the venerable Noldo to speak again.  
  
"I do not understand what is happening here," he spoke in bewildered tones and it seemed he argued with himself rather than to the three people with him in the room. "The ways of our kind are not for the sight and knowledge of outsiders. Yet the vision cannot be ignored." He stopped again on the balcony and stared out unseeing over the majestic view of the pristine valley.  
  
When several more ticks passed without another word, Elrond cleared his throat. "Galdor, could you not undergo this ritual with the Wood Elf, for you are more than merely an initiate and surely that status…"  
  
"Aye, my status," Galdor interrupted, gazing back over his shoulder at the Keeper of Vilya with a tired smile. "The ceremony requires a minimum of two to stand with the grieving one: a guardian and a soul-keeper. As I alone here in Imladris, besides Legolas, know the liturgies required to purge the sorrow-sickness, I must take the role of the guardian. I had thought it was to be as proxy, not that I would actually become this Wood Elf's Tirn'wador (Watcher-Brother: Guardian)."  
  
He did not say that he was also one of the few remaining Sadryn (Faithful Ones - like a Shaman or High Priest) left this side of the Sundering Sea. Indeed, he had thought he was the last until the unexpected appearance of this silvan byr (follower - a devotee or believer). _Where there are followers there are Sadryn to guide them._  
  
He wondered for a few heartbeats who the Greenwood's Sadron was and whether he or she was a refugee from Gondolin as well. He gave his head a small shake; it really was not so surprising that Pâd-en-Tawar (Way of the Great Wood) should be practiced amid the Wood Elves. In any case, as Sadron it would not be proper for him to also be the elf's Faer Hebron (Soul-keeper), for such was against the rules of his Order.  
  
"Ah. That would delegate me as the soul-keeper." Glorfindel now showed uneasiness in his voice for the first time. The ancient noble's near-collapse had convinced him there was more at stake than he could fully comprehend. Whatever acting as soul-keeper involved, the Vanya warrior was not so sure he was prepared to undertake the job. "Why did you not explain this earlier? I thought this was just a kind of symbolic rubric designed to give Legolas the means to allay the guilt and grief of his friends' untimely deaths."  
  
"Have I not said these customs are forbidden to be shared with non-believers?" scolded Galdor. "Now you hesitate and rightly so; it is a grave responsibility that would fall upon us both. Frankly, Glorfindel, if I am to be his Tirn'wador, I must insist on completion of every aspect of Faras-Uin-Ind (Hunting of the Heart - formal courtship), especially from an uninitiated elf of a foreign realm. Can you imagine what Thranduil's response to this is likely to be?"  
  
"What? I am not proposing to court him!" the Balrog Slayer was stunned.  
  
"Indeed, we have gone a bit far afield, Galdor," added Elrond.  
  
"Nay, I think that is exactly the point our clam-lipped friend has been trying so hard to make without openly stating it," Mithrandir sent the elder Noldo a shrewd glance and received a nod of acknowledgement from the Lord of the Tree.  
  
"Valar, this is suddenly very complicated," groaned Elrond. He had no wish to be party to what was, for all intents, a hastily arranged and strange sort of bonding between the Elven King's youngest son and his obviously reluctant Master-at-Arms. "Mayhap the situation is less grave than Glorfindel believes. After all, he has spent very little time with the silvan and a certain amount of sorrow is normal and even healthy in healing the heart."  
  
"Agreed." Glorfindel stated with overweening vehemence. "Elrond, mayhap you would find some moment to be in his company, even if but briefly, for your instincts as a healer are unparalleled. If you determine his soul is in no danger, then nothing further need be done. He will return to his folk and undergo the purging under the trees of his homeland."  
  
"Aye, the midday meal is being served even now. I shall speak with him for I have reason to express thanks for his efforts on our country's behalf before he leaves." Elrond nodded and joined the ancient elf on the balcony.  
  
But Galdor said nothing, for he knew what Elrond would learn. His vision had been intensely vivid and the depth of the archer's pain was more than many could endure without fading. He sighed, worried about the implications yet certain there was little choice under the circumstances. They could either return to Thranduil a son bound to an outlander or a bid the King come and collect his youngest child's corpse.  
  
"And yet I say again, he may not be returning home for many long days," murmured Mithrandir with a faraway look in his inscrutable onyx eyes.  
  
None of the elves would hazard a response to this for one of Gandalf's hunches was nearly as good as certainty, and thus the three Lords of the First-born kept silent regarding their own opinions as they exited the comfortable elegance of Elrond's suite.  
  
It was perhaps not so unusual for the principals in the current events to arrive at the refectory at nearly the same time, for the midday meal provided a welcome break in a given day's travails and an opportunity to meet with friends and family and discuss plans for the remainder of the daylight hours and the starlit ones to come. Indeed, the dining hall was already filled with numerous elves attached to the Last Homely House as well as four of the doughty Rangers, for this was a casual meal and none stood on ceremony or rank.  
  
Thus, into the crowded chamber strolled Erestor and Lindir, gossiping in a friendly manner, appearing from the direction of the singer's rooms. The three Lords and the Istar were mere minutes in time behind them, descending from Elrond's study still solemn and serious over their concerns regarding the Wood Elf. Aragorn strode in from the kitchen, having paused therein to wash up a bit after completing his assigned duty to ensure the hospitable disposition of the lowly talan in Glorfindel's backyard.  
  
Through the main arch arrived the coterie of dwarves and a similar entourage of finely dressed nobles from Gondor. There was an uncomfortable moment before the matter of who should enter first was resolved by the sudden and quick advent of four scurrying Hobbits who barged right between them in haste to get to the food. Well that awakened a shared dread of missing the meal entirely should they argue over the order of entry and the Men and Dwarves politely took turns.  
  
Last of all approached the twin Lords of the realm, flanking their youthful guest.  They were chatting amiably although it was clear the Wood Elf was finding it difficult to get a word in as his vision switched back and forth from one to the other.  
  
Aragorn, who had been watching for them, espied the trio first and hailed his brothers from across the room. He motioned for them to join him at table and effectively focused every eye on the breathtaking sight. The three elves advanced into the hall, two adorned with the lofty grace and lordly elegance bestowed by nature and enhanced by upbringing, the other just as surely an aboriginal adherent to Eru's original design for the silvan race, and around their conjunction arose an unaffected perfection none could deny.  
  
The Chief Advisor and the minstrel observed Thranduil's messenger with ambivalence and open appreciation respectively. The dwarves called boisterous greetings to 'Axe-Foot' that caused more than a few twitters of anxious laughter amid the immortals. The humans trained disgusted sneers upon the archer, having heard the new arrival was the paramour of a much elder and highly placed noble of Elrond's House. Such flagrant social climbing by means of bed-sport, and between males, was unacceptable to human morals. The elf was lower than a harlot but garnered just as much interest and for the same cause.  
  
Galdor remained reserved and withdrawn, seeing exactly what he expected for the signs of the sorrow-sickness were obvious to him. Now that he beheld Legolas in person, the ancient Lord was eager to get the young elf away and do what he might to smother the smouldering grief before it kindled into a consuming pyre. He did not like to think of such a one fading from Arda.  
  
Likewise, Elrond frowned as his worry increased tenfold. His instincts screamed for him to get the elf out of all the commotion and away from the stressful impact of so much unwanted attention, give him a sleeping draught and tuck him into bed for the next two tours of Anor. Beside him Mithrandir clucked his tongue in sympathetic dismay, for he had reason to believe this untried warrior would be integral to the success of their efforts to defeat Sauron and wished not to lose him before the mission had even started.  
  
Glorfindel, however, drew in a shocked breath and marched rapidly across the room as soon as he realised Cuthenin was there, for his sharp eyes had noted the livid mark left by Ithil'wath's staff. Rudely he shoved aside elves, men, and dwarves to intercept the archer as he was escorted to Aragorn's table by Elladan and Elrohir.  
  
"Cuthenin!" he called as he came closer and presented a questioning grimace when the Wood Elf looked in his direction. Once he was near enough Glorfindel reached out and drew the forest warrior from the twins' protective hold. Exhibiting considerable care, he lifted the silvan's chin with his fingertips to better examine the vivid purple bruise marring one high cheek and the eye above it.  
  
Cuthenin did nothing to inhibit the contact.  
  
"Valar! What has happened?" the Balrog Slayer transferred suspicious eyes to Elrond's sons, first Elrohir and then Elladan.  
  
"Nay, do not try to make us the guilty ones," laughed Elladan. He shared a glance with his brother confirming their unified surprise over this rather possessive behaviour on their mentor's part. Both looked at Legolas with renewed curiosity, for while the rumours were rampant the twin Lords had centuries ago learned to discount most of the hearsay that originated from Erestor's rooms.  
  
"Aye, we have been watching out for our guest, Glorfindel, which is more than you can say," added Elrohir.  
  
"Nay, he was well enough when we parted yet now you bring him hither bearing fresh injuries," accused the Vanya noble.  
  
"It is nothing, just a slight bruise," assured Legolas, shivering minutely as Glorfindel's fingers softly palpated the swollen contusion. "It will be gone by the morrow."  
  
"I think it needs tending nonetheless," fussed the re-born warrior, but his voice had taken on a soft timbre that surprised even him. Exactly when he had developed this strong protective instinct toward the youth he could not define. "At least we should apply a compress soaked in athelas and aloe."  
  
"Truly, there is no need," replied Legolas, yet he did not pull away and met the warrior's scrutiny with open gratitude. He could not deny the pleasure this gentle attention generated and while one cheek was too darkly marked to testify to it the soft blush stealing upon the other readily did so. "If you think it best, however…"  
  
"Good! I shall tend the injury after the meal. You must be beyond famished; how long has it been since you consumed anything other than way-bread and water?" As he spoke Glorfindel transferred his fingers to rest upon the silvan's shoulder and there they remained.  
  
"It has been a few days," the Wood Elf shrugged but not so strongly as to dislodge the comforting weight of the Balrog Slayer's hand. "I do not feel hunger often and prefer light repasts."  
  
"Truly? No favourite foods indigenous to your homeland that we can learn to prepare for you here?"  
  
"Nay, well, perhaps there is something, yet I have no notion of how to make it."  
  
"Tell me what it is; I will see if our fine chef can devise a near substitute."  
  
"It is a sort of bread, or pie, filled with sweet wild blueberries."  
  
"But those are very different, a pie versus bread."  
  
"Aye; I told you I know nothing of culinary matters!" the Wood Elf let loose a lightly musical laugh that was a fairer sound than any other in the room and stopped every single conversation.  
  
All eyes sought the source of the enchantingly uplifting voice and smiles were hard to suppress upon discovering its not surprising origin. None of this did the pair of golden-haired elves notice.  
  
Indeed, the small-talk concerning pastries was hardly a topic that would generate interest from anyone, excepting the Hobbits perhaps, were it not for the wide notoriety of the speakers' alleged relationship. Even Elrond listened with intense focus and likewise Galdor and Gandalf took note of every nuance of the interaction, for there was much more being conveyed than a casual conversation about victuals. The elves needed to talk to each other and it mattered little what the subject was as long as each could hear the other's voice.  
  
The elder Elven Lords traded glances nearly identical to those which had so recently passed between Elladan and Elrohir.  
  
"I think I have tasted such a thing myself, once very long ago," Elrond decided it was time to join their discussion, eyes rather bright and twinkling with a smile that simply refused to be squelched. Despite the dreadful circumstances surrounding their acquaintance, it did his heart good to see the accord between his Master-at-Arms and the silvan warrior. He waited until Glorfindel and Legolas turned to acknowledge him. "Is it small, with a thin skin of cooked dough on the outside, coated with a sugary glaze? And inside it is stuffed with warm and gooey blueberries?"  
  
"Aye, just so!" exclaimed Legolas in amazement, smiling back. He had not thought it would be a commonly known commodity, nor did he comprehend to whom he was speaking. "Wherever did you sample fruit pockets?"  
  
"In Lindon, young one," answered Galdor, "early in the last Age. They are a favourite of mine, also. Mae govannen! You are the messenger from the Woodland Realm?"  
  
"Aye, my Lord. Legolas Cuthenin le suilanna (Legolas Cuthenin greets you)," he said and dipped his head politely.  
  
"Galdor o Mithlond. Buiam Tawar. (We serve the Great Wood)," answered the Noldo so quietly only those directly beside him could hear.  
  
The effect on the silvan was immediate and dramatic. Down on his knees Legolas dropped as a shocked gasp fled his lungs. "Tawar mín beria, Sadron. (Tawar protects us, Faithful One.)" The hushed words issued from his reverently lowered countenance as his fist rested above his heart.  
  
This unexpected obeisance precipitated an excited murmur of commentary from the dining room's occupants at large.  
  
"Erio, byr, erio!" (Rise, follower, rise!) commanded the elder Lord with a warm smile and reached for the warrior's arms to speed the process. It was a very solemn face that hesitantly lifted to meet his eyes and Galdor squeezed the archer's biceps in encouragement. "Allow me to present the Lord of the Valley, Elrond Peredhel, and here behind us is Mithrandir, whom you may have seen wandering amid the Woodland King's halls from time to time."  
  
"My Lord Elrond!" the Wood Elf made another deep bow, swallowing in nervousness over having been so familiar with the renowned Elf Lord just moments ago. "I am honoured to meet you and am humbly grateful for your indulgence toward my errand."  
  
"Mae govannen, Legolas. Your task is perhaps more important than you know. And it is I who must express gratitude for your obliging demeanour considering the deplorable lack of goodwill you were showed on arrival." Elrond smiled broadly, dark brows arched and grey eyes gleaming. The youthful messenger was fully composed, if a bit flushed, upon straightening up and the Lord of Imladris silently applauded the ellon's tutors in courtly decorum.  
  
"Nay, my Lord, it was but a simple misunderstanding," assured Legolas. "The issue has been resolved."  
  
"Hah! We can attest to that! Ithil'wath has been duly enlightened, Adar," crowed Elrohir.  
  
"Or at least he will be once he regains consciousness," added Elladan, laughing a bit at the guardsman's expense.  
  
"Good, I am glad that is settled," nodded Mithrandir. "You did not hurt him too badly?"  
  
"Nay! I did not wish to harm him, truly." Legolas faced the wizard with no small amount of dread, for it was Gandalf's trust he had failed to keep in letting Gollum escape the Greenwood. He was relieved to find the Maia smiling gently with no trace of displeasure upon his features.  
  
"Well he meant to injure you," stated the Istar, gesturing at the livid bruise.  
  
"I do not think so; this is from Minui Dram (First Blow)," Legolas corrected, immediately sensing, but not comprehending the cause for, his audience's bewilderment.  
  
"Aye, but why did you let him hit you first? I am sure even Ithil'wath was shocked when you did not block him," Aragorn entered the conversation, stating what his brothers were also wondering.  
  
"You let him do this?" Glorfindel could not hold back his disbelieving disapproval.  
  
"It is the way when sparring," Legolas gazed at each in turn, seeing they were as confused as he was. "The elder fighter sets the level of force to be permitted during the match. Is it not so here?"  
  
"Certainly not!" exclaimed Elrond, appalled that a more experienced warrior was allowed to strike down a less-skilled opponent, uncontested, with the first blow.  
  
"Indeed, in Imladris fighters are paired as equally as possible. It is unseemly for a more knowledgeable warrior to have an unfair advantage. As for those instructing the novice warriors, never would such tactics be permitted." Glorfindel clearly did not condone the Woodland Realm's training methods.  
  
Legolas did not like hearing his country disparaged and naturally his opinion differed, yet he was the youngest in years and a visitor among these noble and legendary folk. It would be wrong for him to contradict his elders and his host publicly. He set his jaw and drew his shoulders back straight and proud, however, in silent protest.  
  
"Mayhap we should try these techniques," offered Elladan, seeing the woodland Elf's displeasure at having to hold his tongue. "for Legolas easily defeated Ithil'wath, one of Imladris' finest swordsmen."  
  
"Aye, and without rest after a long and tragic journey, while still recovering from serious injuries," added Elrohir, grinning to see the amazement spreading across Legolas' features.  
  
"Not to mention having consumed nothing more than way-bread and water for six days," continued Aragorn, earning an exasperated smile from the Wood Elf.  
  
The three brothers had made certain to speak loudly enough for everyone to understand them, mortals and immortals alike, and in response the chamber was quickly buzzing with animated converse over the fight. Even the Men of Gondor regarded the silvan with more respectful expressions.  
  
"And finished the uncouth Noldo off with his bare left foot!" concluded the gruff and booming voice of Gloín. "Hail, Axe-Foot!" he called, waving at Legolas, as his kinfolk laughed and slapped the table with their palms, chanting out 'Axe-Foot' and 'Hammer-Hands' three times in their deep, sonorous voices.  
  
"Well now, there seems to be a story to tell," said Elrond, smiling at the messenger. "We shall join you three, if that is acceptable, and hear of this unusual style of training and the skills it imparts."  
  
"Of course, Adar, we would be pleased with your company," responded Elladan, answering for his brothers as eldest.  
  
Another table was dragged closer to accommodate the eight comrades and without further ado everyone sat down to enjoy the meal. Legolas was relieved that no one expected him to do anything but eat as the twins and their human brother took turns telling of the morning's events, complete with a colourful description of the archer's arrival amid the Dwarf Lords. In fact, every time he paused to take a breath or try and correct a point here and there, either Elrond, Glorfindel, or Elladan prompted Legolas to try something else from the board.  
  
Legolas found himself seated between Glorindel and Galdor with Elrond directly across from him, next to the wizard, with the twins at either end of the combined table and their mortal brother on the Elf Lord's right hand. Truly, he was too overwhelmed to do more than issue monosyllabic responses to their questions and comments. Yet ever his eyes wandered to Galdor and found the kindly albeit concerned gaze of the elder Elf upon him.  Near the end of the repast, the former Lord of Gondolin leaned close and whispered for his ears alone:  
  
"Boe ammen peded firn na adeden cuil." (We must speak of the dead to renew life.)  
  
An expression equal parts relief and trepidation passed over the younger Elf's features and, seeing this, Glorfindel placed a consoling hand upon his shoulder.  
  
TBC


	8. Sombre Songs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounded and sick at heart, Legolas arrives at Imladris as Thranduil's messenger on the eve of the Council of Elrond. He meets Glorfindel and the two form a unique bond. Through the rites of an ancient religion, Glorfindel becomes Legolas' Soul Keeper and saves him from certain fading due to grief. Love blossoms between the unlikely couple as the great events of the ring War are about to unfold. Features Legolas as Thranduil's love child rather than a legitimate heir.

**Cuthenin (True-Bow)**  
by F.E.Morton  
UnBeta'd  
  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.  
  
 _thoughts_  
(elvish translations)  


* * *

**Tolothen Peth: Laer Dhuir (Part Eight: Sombre Songs)**  
  
Legolas was not exactly certain how it came about but in universal accord the eight diners finished the meal and disbanded to attend to the remainder of the day's duties. Elladan and Elrohir exited together for unknown travail, Mithrandir and Elrond went to check on the Hobbits at their over-flowing table, and Aragorn beseeched Glorfindel's aid in planning a scouting mission for the Rangers, collecting them from a smoke hazed alcove whence the Men had repaired at meal's end.  
  
Legolas had enjoyed a last look shared with the Balrog Slayer, the mighty warrior's gaze both apologetic and encouraging, his simultaneously reassuring and genuinely cheerful in return. The silvan warrior was thus left in the company of the noble survivor from the ancient city destroyed so long ago by Melkor's vile machines of war and one traitorous elf's disgraceful betrayal.  
  
"Sadron?" the Wood Elf turned to the ancient Lord with expectant puzzlement as they rose.  
  
"Adjourn with me and let us take counsel together, Legolas."  
  
"Aye, Lord, you honour me with the gift of your wisdom."  
  
The Lord of the Tree smiled and led him away out of dining hall, offering neither explanations nor expecting any questions, for he was much above the silvan in rank with respect to their mutual creed, regardless of Legolas' heritage within a royal House. The woodland byr was bound to do as he was asked and would neither display hesitation nor offer counter suggestions. They moved through the still crowded refectory toward a side exit beyond which was a walled garden attached to Elrond's private morning room.  
  
Galdor was aware of, but chose not to acknowledge, the notice taken by Erestor and Lindir as he and Legolas took their leave of the room.  He had already heard the seamy stories and knew their source. Yet beyond that, the ancient Lord understood the cause of the Noldo's bitterness and was not bereft of sympathy and compassion. This other-half of the unravelled, tangled, ruined remnant of Glorfindel's last attempt at sharing his life was the most critical factor against allowing Cuthenin to become attached to the re-born warrior.  
  
If Legolas was cognisant of the searing glares bent upon him by the Chief Advisor to Imladris, he did not deign to show it and this pleased the elder. The Wood Elf presented as calm and slightly aloof even in the midst of his mounting sorrow. This level of self-control under such derogatory public scrutiny bespoke the strength of his character as well as the high degree of his devotion to Pâd-en-Tawar. Galdor was absolutely sure the silvan archer was mentally reciting a litany designed to render the soul peaceful and the mind detached from detrimental emotional energy projected by antagonists.  
  
The Noldo Lord ushered the Wood Elf into the hidden garden and grinned to hear the appreciative sigh that fled his companion's lips. The acre-sized cultivated plot was in fact an arboretum of exotic species not normally found so far inland of the coast. Elrond, having effectively grown up in the seaside climate of Lindon, did all he could to replicate the ecosystem found there. Here were trees such as Legolas had never imagined: palms without branches sprouting wide, green fans from their crowns, a strange sort of nutmeg with needle-like leaves and a wrinkled and leathery fruit, tall magnolias shedding their red-spotted seed pods, a wide variety of water-willows, innumerable ferns crowding the shaded bases of the trees, and more types of lilies and orchids than he could count. In fact, there were so many unknown varieties of flora that Legolas quite forgot he was expected to attend to the elder Lord's counsel and came as close to frolicking among the greenery as a full-grown elf was likely to do.  
  
Galdor chuckled to see it and did nothing to inhibit the youth's excited exuberance, waiting patiently until the silvan archer had completed a tour of the garden and stopped beside a merry little brook. He joined Legolas, happy to see the absolute delight that transformed the formerly drawn and weary countenance, and led him to a comfortable bench. Close to the amply padded seat was an unusual fire stove formed from moulded clay, short and squat like a summer gourd, raised up off the ground about a third of a metre on sturdy wrought iron feet. From it radiated a cheery warmth more than welcomed by the messenger.  
  
Legolas had not realised he was chilled until the fire's heat reached him and he stretched his hands toward it like a plant turning its leaves to the sun. "I had no idea such trees lived!" he exclaimed and smiled up at the elder Lord as he pointed to the palmettos' peculiar bark and waving fans. "Those would be easy to climb but uncomfortable for sitting or sleeping."  
  
"Aye," Galdor laughed heartily at this remark. "Yavanna has created plants for every type of climate. In Mithlond, I think it is safe to say the elves would be just as surprised to behold the towering beeches and cedars of Greenwood." He sat beside the Wood Elf, noting in concern the ellon's need for the heat of the fire. He had not intended to have the conversation in the open, only using the garden as a convenient escape from curious eyes. Elrond's house was a maze and there was a second portal within the morning room which led to a servants' stairway. This would carry them beyond notice up to the elder's suite. Yet Legolas seemed at ease amid the arboretum and perhaps that was more important than absolute security from eavesdropping ears.  
  
Legolas waited for the ancient Sadron to begin their discussion. He felt rather torn between a sense of deep gratitude for a chance to talk with someone so important within Pâd-en-Tawar and frustrated not to be permitted to meet privately with Mithrandir and deliver the news he had been sent to announce. The wizard had brushed aside his mid-meal request vaguely and then Elrond had immediately interrupted, virtually commanding the archer to withhold this revelation pending attendance at an important council on the morrow. He was now expected to explain to an entire roomful of strangers from foreign lands how he had failed in his duty and placed Greenwood in such an untenable position.  
  
Thus when Galdor had excused them both at meal's end, Legolas had followed along in a rather forlorn state of mind, envisioning the scorn this unforeseen meeting between so many representatives of the free peoples of Arda would inflict upon his country.  
  
"It will be difficult for you to deliver your message from Thranduil before an audience?" Galdor had noticed Legolas' morose disposition upon learning of the council and decided that was as easy a place to begin as any, for their discourse was likely to affect the silvan greatly before its conclusion.  
  
"Aye, Sadron. I was hoping to tell this news only to Mithrandir, once I learned he was here. I will do as Lord Elrond asks, of course."  
  
"What do you fear?"  
  
"To hold my people up to more ridicule and offer all the other realms of Arda additional ammunition with which to snipe at my homeland. I must relate a grave error on my part, yet though the fault is mine it is Greenwood and the silvan people that will be derided for it."  
  
"That is unfortunate. I am sure Elrond meant no such outcome, thinking only to prevent you from needing to tell the story over more than once. If you wish, I will ask him to excuse you from this chore."  
  
"Nay, that would be worse. Many in the refectory will have heard him request my presence at the council. How shall it be that every realm of free people is represented except the Greenwood? If I fail to attend, this will only serve to reveal me as unreliable and cowardly, and my race thusly by association."  
  
"That is too strong; no one would call you timid now that the whole account of the fight is known."  
  
"It matters not for they will speculate until a derogatory cause is discovered or invented. I will face these delegates, Sadron, and make sure to emphasise that the mistake was mine alone." Legolas spoke with more conviction than he felt and a glance at the elder noble revealed this was no secret.  
  
"Well then we shall do what we can to strengthen you for it," Galdor smiled and laid a hand upon the archer's shoulder kindly. He noted at once the fine tremors racing along beneath the borrowed garments and grew more concerned. "You are cold."  
  
"Aye. I cannot get warm, except when I was in the spa, even though I feel my body is on fire at times. I believe it is an after-effect of the poison."  
  
"In that case we must retire to my chambers. I was reluctant to do so openly for fear of adding to the rumours flying about the house," said Galdor and rose, offering his hand to the archer to help him up, for he looked bone weary. "I know a means to reach the suite unnoticed. It is regrettable you had to get caught up in that awful conflict between my former countrymen. In any other matter, Erestor is beyond reproach and the staunchest ally one could have. If he had met you in a different context, I do not think he would have given you a second thought."  
  
"Glorfindel has explained as much," replied the silvan messenger, permitting the Noldo Lord to guide him back within the mansion through a set of long glass doors where the garden's lawn met the morning room.  
  
They did not speak during the walk to the Lord's chambers and as fate would have it the pair passed no less than three servants on the way. Once in his suite's sitting room, Galdor had to send for aid in lighting the fire, for there was no fuel set in the grate at this mild-seasoned time of the year. The elf attending to this task gave Legolas a thorough inspection and an unsavoury smile, half sneering and half leering, before leaving. That this was the page attached to Erestor neither Galdor nor Legolas could know, being but visitors to Imladris.  
  
Legolas gave no response to the disquieting attention other than a stoic sigh.  
  
The elder just caught it as he disappeared through one of the chamber's inner doors and made a mental note to counter the servant's tattling tongue as soon as possible. _Elbereth knows how twisted this will become, thanks to Erestor and his seething jealousy._  
  
"Sadron, I must ask for Pennas Lunnen (History Sung) for my fallen comrades. It does not seem likely now that I shall make it back to the place of their demise as quickly as I had hoped." Legolas' voice was filled with his sorrow and guilt as he lifted pleading eyes to the Noldo Lord upon his return.  
  
"Aye, it shall be done. Yet I am thinking that will not be enough," Galdor had brought a thick woollen cloak from his bedroom and draped it around the silvan's shoulders, joining him on the sofa by the blazing hearth. "Glorfindel has suggested the need for Úcaul Annaur (Unburdening by Fire). I am inclined to agree with him."  
  
"But he is not an initiate!" Legolas blurted out.  
  
To say it was a shock to learn that Glorfindel had initially proposed the rite's invocation was grossly inadequate. Legolas realised the Vanya understood something of his religion by the recognition displayed concerning the hidden marks on his forearms. It was equally apparent by the lack of same upon the Balrog Slayer's body that he was not among the faithful. For someone outside Pâd-en-Tawar to suggest this course was unheard of.  
  
"True, yet you do not deny the idea has crossed your mind also."  
  
"Aye, Sadron, I have longed for it ever since…" Legolas low voice drifted into silence before the sentence completed.  
  
"So I see." Galdor carefully rubbed the Wood Elf's back. "I was as surprised as are you that Glorfindel understands the concept. In all honesty, he does not really comprehend the full extent of the ritual. He only knows you are suffering and remembered this ceremony from his first life in Gondolin. I assure you, he does not mean any disrespect to you or to your comrades in requesting my intervention."  
  
"I would never think thus. Yet it cannot be, for I have lost Tirn'wathelen (my Watcher-Sister: female Guardian) and there is no one here to replace her or to stand as Faer Hebron."  
  
"Your Guardian, was she destined to become your mate and soul-keeper and you, hers?" asked the Noldo gently, for he suspected this to be the case considering the depth of the silvan youth's despair.  
  
"Nay, Calarlim (Lamp-light) was only my Guardian, Sadron." Legolas voice broke over the pronouncing of her name and he barely held back a heart-tearing sob. His hands tugged the cape tighter around him and he shivered visibly, his blue eyes awash in such anguish that Galdor knew there was more to this relationship than the formal one of guardian and charge.  
  
"I have seen the tragedy that has befallen you, young one. You lost your Guardian in the struggle to cross the Mountains," Galdor spoke softly and with compassion. "Yet there is something more, for in the vision I beheld the power of the bond you shared. You understand? Calarlim is asking me to aid you; she made the vision to come upon me. Tell me of this and relieve your soul of the strife."  
  
"Nae! (Alas!) I begged her not to come along but of course Calarlim would not heed me!" Legolas cried in desperation, searching Sadron's face for absolution for failing to convince his Guardian to remain in the Greenwood.  
  
"Nay, your Tirn'wathel could do no less; no entreaty you could make would have stayed her purpose. Lay aside any thought of blame over her fate, for it is one she chose willingly and gladly," Galdor soothed his hand gently against the suffering elf's spine, up and down, rubbing in hopes of encouraging some warmth back into the shuddering form beside him. He waited patiently, for he would hear Legolas divulge the real kernel of misery that was now sprouting so quickly and, if not uprooted, would too soon choke out any other emotion's growth. "Enni annach caul lín." (Give me your burden.) Sadron commanded.  
  
"I cannot believe she is gone. It cannot be! Always has she been at my side; there is no time in my memory when Calarlim was not present. She raised me; she loved me as a mother would," the archer choked out, unable to stem the tears that began to fall.  
  
"And your cuil-oneth? (life-giver) Where is she, Legolas?" Galdor was feeling more anxious by the second, fearing confirmation of the answer that had already formed in his mind.  
  
"She is gone. I never knew her, for I am told she could not survive beyond my creation and bearing into life. Calarlim is her sister and became my Naneth Edwen (Second Mother). I have lost her, Sadron! Why could I not save her?" Legolas doubled over as if in pain, which he truly was, and wept openly as the images returned in all their horrific detail.  
  
Must he perpetually witness her demise, the terrible moment when her attention wavered, distracted by his shout upon being wounded, when the Orc's blade made it past her defences? Must he ever see the filthy sword's deadly swing, hear the sickening sound of rending flesh as it sliced her open nearly in twain, spilling her blood and organs even before she fell to the ground? He clamped a hand over his mouth and nose, but this did not prevent the stench from pervading his every sense; the acrid smell of her blood, bile, and urine mixing as everything poured from her severed body's cavity. Legolas fought the sickness rising in his chest to no avail and was soon retching uncontrollably into a container of some sort that the ancient Lord held before him.  
  
"There now, young one, there now," calmly Galdor whispered as he aided Legolas through the vomiting, having suspected some such thing would result. Thus he had gathered a large bowl and kept it near at hand as soon as they had entered his sitting room. He held back the long golden hair and supported the trembling body, spoke quiet encouragement and strengthening prayers. "You did all there was to do; it was not in your power to prevent this. It is a mother's right, be she first or second, to die protecting her child. This you must accept."  
  
The foul odour of his undigested meal was too like the grotesque stench of death engulfing his Naneth Edwen and Cuthenin wailed between the heaving expulsions from his gut. He continued to disgorge acid and bile until he was empty, body and soul. It was all over in a matter of minutes but to Legolas it seemed an Age had passed while this demeaning weakness laid him down in defeat on the soft sofa.  
  
With the violent emotional and physical upheaval diminishing, Galdor eased the slumped warrior's depleted body aside carefully and rose to dispose of the noisome liquified remains. That this had been the only nourishing meal the silvan had consumed in days added to the Noldo's worry. The venerable elder set the offensively reeking bowl outside the door and shut it firmly. He retreated to his bedroom and exited a moment later bearing a damp cloth from the washstand and paused beside a side table upon which stood a collection of decanters and small jars. He poured a cup of miruvor and discreetly added a minute amount of some of the powdered herbs from the glass bottles, watching to ensure Legolas did not notice.    
  
Galdor had been prepared for something grave but this was a calamity he had not envisioned. The elf had lost his naneth and his Guardian, one and the same person, all in the same battle. The noble Sadron had no reluctance to performing the ritual now, for the urge to follow his Second Mother to Mandos would only grow stronger in Legolas' feä with each passing hour. Galdor found himself stubbornly defiant in wishing to prevent the archer from doing so and firmly believed Eru had guided him here to insure such never came to pass.  
  
 _Only the sickness from the poisoned wounds has prevented his fading thus far, for his mind has until recently been in a haze of fever. With physical healing underway and his thoughts coherent again, it is but a matter of time before Legolas succumbs to the sorrow. He must undergo Úcaul Annaur and if Glorfindel will not acquiesce to becoming the soul-keeper then another must be found at once._  
  
Now he must seek to learn the Wood Elf's heart and ask him to give up his Tirn'wathel, permitting Galdor to assume this crucial role. It was cruel to force him to bare his soul thus, for Legolas was alone among strangers and yet must depend upon these outlanders to see him through the ordeal to come. It would not be easy to place his trust in someone so quickly, even though the elder was a leader among the Sadryn. For this reason Galdor had drugged the potent liqueur and while the cause was just the Noldo Lord could not prevent the guilt that stole over his heart to do it. He only hoped the messenger had not partaken of miruvor previously and would not notice the altered taste.  
  
 _Assuming he did not observe my actions in tampering with it._  
  
He need not have worried, for the woodland messenger was curled in the corner of the sofa, legs folded beneath him, one arm wrapped over his aching stomach and the other propped upon the armrest, holding up his head and covering his eyes. His shoulders shook with the aftermath of his sobbing and the wrenching regurgitation while his breath came and left with audible despair.  
  
Galdor frowned in tribulation and hastened to the Wood Elf's side, unceremoniously pulling him into his arms and wiping the wan face with the soft cloth. Legolas avoided his eyes and this he had expected also, knowing Wood Elves would consider such a breakdown before a stranger a sign of immaturity and indicative of a will lacking in strength. He knew how to counter this, however, and did not hesitate.  
  
"Sîdh, Legolas, (Peace) this shall remain between us, for I shall be your Tirn'wador from henceforth, unless you object. It is fitting for you to share your sorrow with your Guardian, is this not so? You must have a Guardian until you are soul-bound to your mate. I shall take up this task."  
  
Then the young warrior lifted surprised, tear-reddened eyes to the ancient elf's, searching them intently for some sense of comprehension. "Why would you do this, Sadron? We are not even of the same race much less the same House. Do you know any of my people?"  
  
"I met your minya'dar (first-father: grandfather) many centuries ago. I witnessed his honourable sacrifice at the Last Alliance, something many do not fully comprehend, even among the First-born. Oropher's pre-emptive charge caught the Dark forces by surprise and kept them quite busy as Gil-Galad prepared for the full assault upon the Black Gates."  
  
Galdor passed the cup to his guest and encouraged him to drink. "Your people are known to me and therein lies another mystery, for the House of Oropher is not counted Istad im Pâd-en-Tawar. (Knowing in the Way of Tawar.) How is it then that you and I are of the same faith?"  
  
"I was raised by Calarlim through my infancy and was not brought within Hiren Adar's (my Lord Father's) court until my thirtieth year. She is of Noss Tuilin (the House of the Swallow)."  
  
"Ah, that explains it, for the Swallows were staunch adherents to the Way. I am gratified that some remnant of those valourous people survived Maeglin's betrayal and also saddened that I had no knowledge of where they settled. Like ashes are the Gondolindrim (people of Gondolin), scattered by the wind," Galdor's voice was fraught with nostalgic regret for the loss of so great a kingdom of the elves.  
  
"Say not ashes, Sadron, but seeds; and fertile is the ground of the Greenwood," replied the archer quietly.  
  
"Aye." Galdor smiled into the corn-flower blue gaze, both pleased and impressed by this insightful counter-comment to his bitter-sweet remark. Legolas had a depth of wisdom few elves were capable of at his age and this only strengthened the elder's determination to salvage the woodland messenger. "This is a tie beyond our distinct ancestry. Our realms may be separate yet we both live within the bounty of Tawar. It does not matter if I am Noldorin and you silvan, for the allegiance between the House of the Tree and that of the Swallow goes back into the Ages. Besides, are not all the elves Iluvatar's Children?"  
  
"Aye, Sadron."  
  
"Then all that is required is your acceptance. If there is another you might choose to delegate I will approach him or her, yet in Elrond's realm there are few that comprehend the nature of such a commitment. Moreover, I see that my journey here was ordained by Tawar specifically to fulfil this duty. None shall gainsay the voice of Tawar save Manwë himself, and I hear not the wind. What say you, Legolas? Can you abide a stranger as replacement for your beloved Tirn'wathel?"  
  
"It is as you say: the will of Tawar is not to be questioned, Sadron. Yet it does not feel like you are a stranger, Lord, but rather that we are kinsmen, somehow." Legolas was confused that this should be so but could not deny that he felt completely at ease in Galdor's presence. He took another sip of the miruvor and continued. "I will abide it, Sadron; indeed it is an honour to be granted so noble a Guardian as one among the Founders." Everything was happening so very quickly and yet he instantly felt better upon accepting this generous offer.  
  
"Nasan." (So be it.)  
  
Galdor rose from the couch and again vanished into the inner rooms, returning with a small wooden box covered in finely tooled kidskin leather stained a rich dark violet. Upon its lid was the emblem of his ancient House, a great cedar tree, and the sides of the container were decorated in an elaborate border of interlocking symbols that looked like leaf and limb but were really constructed from sacred runes and spells. This he set upon the hearth and then gathered up the bottle of miruvor and the cloth as well. He collected Legolas last of all, escorting him to the fireplace and settling him on the raised lip of stone before the roaring grate.  
  
"It is best to be near the fire in your condition," he said in answer to the questioning look the archer sent him. "Finish the tonic I gave you, for that will make this easier as well."  
  
Legolas dipped his head in assent and swallowed down the rest of the drink. He was fully aware the cordial was drugged but in truth he was grateful rather than offended. He could not imagine his heart relinquishing his Tirn'wathel readily, even though his mind understood she was far beyond his reality now. The potent mixture, combined with Sadron's frequent declarations of the will of Tawar, made him agreeable to whatever  
the elder suggested. It did not even seem so unimaginable to accept Glorfindel as Faer Hebron, though his reason was fairly shouting that this could never be so. He set aside the drained cup and faced his new mentor.  
  
"Gerin hûr," (I am ready.) he said.  
  
TBC


	9. Marks to Guard and Guide

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounded and sick at heart, Legolas arrives at Imladris as Thranduil's messenger on the eve of the Council of Elrond. He meets Glorfindel and the two form a unique bond. Through the rites of an ancient religion, Glorfindel becomes Legolas' Soul Keeper and saves him from certain fading due to grief. Love blossoms between the unlikely couple as the great events of the ring War are about to unfold. Features Legolas as Thranduil's love child rather than a legitimate heir.

**Cuthenin (True-Bow)  
by F.E.Morton**  
UnBeta'd  
  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.  
  
 _thoughts_  
(elvish translations)  


* * *

**Nedrui Peth: Teith na Tûr ar Tegi (Part Nine: Marks to Guard and Guide)**  
  
The fire whispers softly a song of warmth and light,  
and amid the coals bright tongues dancing mesmerise my sombre soul.  
Shifting shades of amber and ochre, lulling tones in gentle timbre,  
yield visions of summer's favoured hours under sounds recalling autumn's showers.  
Entranced, the spirit spies naught but this final burst of red and orange gloze,  
remembering dew, unnumbered drops of air's breath coating leaf and limb,  
feeling earth between the tangled strands of rooted toes  
and the surge of sap through timber in the spring.  
Bark creaking and stretching in the stormy wind, reduced to radiant embers,  
gives voice to the last stanzas of the fallen tree's chorus,  
I sing a subdued, sullen note of long dark nights before us  
and the sleep of endless pale Decembers.  
  
A shiver and a deep sigh worked through Legolas' body where he sat upon the hearth staring intently into the undulating gleam of translucent flame, his thoughts drifting there within the curling currents of swirling heat and fire. Absorbed in the last gift of the maple, he received the fragments of consciousness freed from the tree's dry dead branches by the consuming blaze even as his weary body soaked up the effulgent warmth. He spared a swift glance into Galdor's face and found the mild brown eyes observing him just as studiously but with far greater concentration and something akin to appreciation.  
  
"That is both sad and beautiful," said the elder elf and smiled at the young archer's expression of confusion and surprise. "Aye, you sang the tree's last lament just now. Did you not know?" He could see this was so and Legolas' quick shake of the head confirmed it.  
  
"I do not recall singing," Legolas was uncomfortably doubtful and worried for such a thing to happen. He was not wont to lose himself in song or any other form of contemplation, and failing to remark his own voice was not something that had ever occurred before.  
  
"Do not be overly concerned; it is not so unusual to act strangely at such times. Your bond with the woods is strong and other bonds have been violently severed. The feä reaches for what comfort it may find under such strain; yours found the remnant essence of the tree from whence the fuel originated."  
  
"Mayhap it is the drink," murmured the messenger, swallowing down the rest of the concoction in two eager gulps. He held out the cup. "Is there more of it?"  
  
"There is, yet you have nothing solid in your stomach to dilute it." Galdor considered carefully the downcast disappointment on Cuthenin's features, then took the cup and arose with a nod. "I suppose it can do no harm as long as I watch over you."  
  
"I am not a child," the belligerent words got loose before Legolas could quite comprehend it and his eyes grew huge as his ears figured out what his tongue had just uttered. "Ai, Sadron! I did not mean to be disrespectful, forgive me!"  
  
But Galdor was smiling, pleased that the tonic was working well enough to remove some of the Wood Elf's inhibitions. There could be none between them; Legolas must trust him completely. "Be at ease, I understand the source of those thoughts and thus you are free to voice them. You are free to speak anything your heart needs to reveal." He returned with a second, somewhat smaller serving of the doctored miruvor and sat beside Legolas.  
  
Legolas accepted the drink but not the elder's suggestion. He could not do as Galdor said; how could he? _I do not even know this elf. I cannot bear my heart to him._ Yet somehow he must if he would allow the noble Sadron to become his Tirn'wador. _And why am I so eager for a replacement? I do not need a Tirn'wador._  
  
Instantly his mind called forth a vivid memory, a time when he was young and rebellious, envious of the elves his age who had no Watcher to whom they must answer. Arms crossed before him and a deep scowl marring his features, eyes fierce and bright, he had uttered the same sentence to Calarlim.  
  
 _'I do not need a Guardian. Henceforth, you may be my Naneth Edwen but nothing more. Tûovor (Strength Abundant - Thranduil's first born) and Tûrdangannen (Mastery Confirmed - Thranduil's second born) do not have Guardians.'  
  
'That is true but then again both of them have bond-mates and families now, do they not? When you are so bound, you will not need Tirn'wathel then.' Calarlim answered with calm reason, fighting her smile at the sight of her contentious son, for in her heart Legolas was nothing less. How she mourned the passing of his elfling days while rejoicing in the youth's development as this new spirit of independence sought to grow and emerge.  
  
'True.' This reluctant capitulation was followed by a short silence as Legolas sought a counter argument. 'Yet they did not have Tirn'wedyr (Guardians) ever, for they are not marked with the signs of Pâd-en-Tawar. They are whole and strong and Hiren Adar is proud of them, yet never had they any Guardian to interfere in their actions,' he reiterated emphatically, certain such logic was indisputable.  
  
'You are correct, your brothers are not byr (followers). Nothing can be done about this, for it is not the way in your father's House. However, each of them had other minders through their young years; ask and they will tell you. And those minders were simply paid to serve the King's wife-mate, not devoted and bound to his children by holy rites and sacred oaths. In fact, many governors and tutors came and went within your father's household, for few elves could abide for long the constant uproar following your two brothers' every move.'  
  
'But Tirn'wathel, this year I shall celebrate my twenty-fourth begetting day! (between ages 10 and 11) That is too old to have you following after me always. The others mock me for bringing along my nurse-maid to the training field!'  
  
'Very well, mayhap your twenty-fourth year deserves some recognition. Yet with the privilege of freedom comes the responsibility,' Calarlim decided to compromise, hastening to temper her son's joyous response so that he would hear her words completely. 'My trust in you is absolute and I expect it never to be broken, even as you know with surety that I will never betray yours. Such is the pact between us.  
  
'You may go unattended to your weapons practice and to lessons with the scholars, yet you shall return to me at the appointed time before you make other plans for your remaining hours. You will not be late for Eneg Egleriad. (Six Praises - a cycle of contemplation and prayer for followers of Pâd-en-Tawar) Now will  the strength of your convictions be tested, for if you believe the other elves will cease teasing you because I am not present, you are soon to be disillusioned.'_  
  
She had been right, of course. Without her at his back, his contemporaries had felt free to say things he had never heard before. The first day on his own he had been sent back to her in disgrace for starting a brawl over the insults and slurs aimed at his deceased mother and his status in the community. Prior to that day, he had not known it was shameful to be created as his parents had made him, for no one would speak such words with Calarlim the fearsome protector ever armed and by his side.  
  
By the end of the week, he had realised how much he relied upon his Guardian and wished he could return to the days when she was always beside him, a shield against hurts he had not imagined, even as she had predicted. There was no going back, however, and as the years brought him closer to maturity, he was even more grateful for her dedicated vigilance and unfailing support. He had come to feel as an alien in his own lands, an outsider amid his people, and but for her aid he would not have both accepted and mastered his nature. Without her, the internal sense of exclusion would have bloomed into reality.  
  
There was a similarity in his present situation. He truly was in a foreign land among folk split between those who could not fully understand him even did they wish friendship and those openly scornful and derisive. He needed someone to guide him through the events about to transpire and provide a bulwark against the mounting sorrow and impending disgrace. Even more, he required a mentor to teach him how to navigate among these new customs and the unexpected invitation he seemed to sense regarding expression of his darkest needs. He had many questions and a Guardian would be bound to answer them.  
  
Yet the trust between them was not one-sided. As Tirn'wador, Galdor would defend Legolas even unto death, counsel him, console him in time of need, and most importantly act as a chaperon during courting. Tirn'wador would have the final say in whether or not a match was favoured; even an elf's parents could not gainsay the Guardian's decision.  
  
In return Legolas must reveal his inner heart or chance nullifying his Tirn'wador's efforts. There could be no holding back, no farce or pretense of allegiance; he must either grant to Lord Galdor the same place held in his life by Calarlim or forego the entire procedure and struggle on alone.  
  
"It is not so easy, is it?" Galdor guessed the turmoil in his companion's thoughts and its source. "Just saying it is the will of Tawar does not make the situation more endurable. Worry not; once Úcaul Annaur (Unburdening by Fire) is completed you will find this less taxing, for Calarlim does not wish you to suffer and hopes for this transition to ease your spirit. For now, the marking will be a beginning for you. As soon as the first puncture is made, you will feel her protection ebb even as the red dye seeps into your skin, even as my protection surrounds you."  
  
Legolas shuddered again, hastily downed the rest of the drugged liqueur, and set the glass aside. "I am ready," he said for the second time and perhaps, due in part to the miruvor's effects, this declaration was more truthful than the first. He began to unfasten the closures to his borrowed tunic and slipped it over his head. As he worked on the shirt he watched Sadron remove and ready the devices required to ink the new marks and modify the old ones.  
  
The piercing tool was a simple and efficient design carved from oak wood consisting of a slender handled stylus elegantly adorned with engraved blessings and potent prayers. The end of the handle was fitted with a tight array of three fine needles sharp and gleaming a bright white silver as if cast from mithril, which they were. Legolas had not seen any piercing quill composed from metal, and such a precious one at that. In Greenwood, the puncturing implement was generally a bone splinter, a shard of jasper, or the thorns from acacia trees. Calarlim had favoured thorns, for there was an ever-ready supply of fresh, unblunted points to harvest.  
  
There were two brushes with thick soft boar bristles, similar to those used in painting a canvas, resting in the case. A vial of rust-coloured liquid, one of sooty indigo, and a container of clear liquid used to cleanse the skin and the implements before and during the work completed the set. To make a design, the brush was soaked in pigment and held between the fingers of one hand, which also pressed and held the skin taut. The needled end of the piercing tool was then dabbed into the saturated bristles and jabbed repeatedly into the dermis with the other hand.  
  
Galdor set out everything neatly on the stone hearth and waited as Legolas removed his shirt.  
  
Cuthenin did so and then held his arms out, fists curled tight with thumbs up-facing, for the elder elf's inspection.  
  
Galdor took one rigid knot of folded digits and carefully massaged the throbbing vein at the arm's juncture, murmuring a prayer for peace of mind and strength of will, until the archer relaxed and the hand opened. Setting this one down upon Legolas' knee, he repeated the procedure with its twin until both arms were loose and pliant to his manipulation. Only then did Sadron allow himself to trace the long lines of text up from the crease at the wrist to the the joint of the elbow. He and Legolas quietly spoke the words of the prayers together.  
  
Not stopping there, Galdor also ran his index finger lightly around the spiral over the archer's heart. He smiled, finding Calarlim's name in no less than three locations: on each forearm and within the delicate spiral. _The place of the Guardian is still one of high prestige, then._  
  
All of those signs relating to her would now be altered. On Cuthenin's arms, her name would be struck through with a livid slash of vibrant crimson to signify her loss by violent death. A new line of text would then be inked in blue, proclaiming Galdor's place as Tirn'wador and Legolas' acceptance of the change.  
  
The heart-spiral was more difficult to alter, for the symmetry of the design must be preserved. Not only were the words  important but the image itself represented a powerful emblem of protection. This mark was the first begun on an initiate's body and its centre was inked on the twelfth day after birth. Thereafter, it was added to every year, embellished as the child grew, through the fifth year. From thence to the fiftieth year, the spiral was increased every sixth year and then never again until bonding occurred. The marks given then would be the last ever added to the heart-spiral.  
  
 _Barring a tragedy such as Legolas has experienced._  
  
Calarlim's name could not simply be crossed out, but would have to be outlined in red instead, a much more painstaking procedure, before the elder could add his name. Galdor decided the best way to achieve both goals was to create a sort of trailing back whorl on each of the three arms, so that there would be an inner and outer spiral, one interlaced within the other, one growing from and superseding the other, yet perpetually linked in an endless loop.  
  
Yet Galdor was not through with his observations and lifted questioning eyes to Legolas. A bright smile and a swift move to bring all the golden hair to the front was his answer and the Noldo turned his new charge slightly to better view the exquisite work on the archer's back.  
  
"Remarkable," he whispered. "Who did the design for you?"  
  
"Tirn'wathel."  
  
"Of course, I should have realised." The elder's fingers trailed along one outspread wing and he heard Legolas whisper the incantation contained within the feathers as he touched them. This emblem, absolutely unique to Legolas, would have also been gradually built over his lifetime, with the small points of the constellation and a single feathered prayer inked on the first begetting day anniversary. The full image could not be finished until physical growth was complete and traditionally this was an event that happened on Coll o Gweth (Coming of Age) in the fiftieth year.  
  
Galdor let his touch fall upon the delicate spray of vines and flowers and here his attention froze. This was a design he had seen before and his brows rose in surprise, wondering if the meaning was still the same.  
  
"Tirn'wathel protected me," said Legolas quietly, knowing where his new Guardian's eyes were focused. "Will you do the same?"  
  
"I will, if it is within my power. Legolas, you have said there is no one to stand as your Faer Hebron (Soul Keeper), yet this mark is reserved for an elf betrothed. Such a design was surely chosen by your intended mate. Tell me, where is this elf?" Galdor turned from his scrutiny of the vivid rendering and sought Cuthenin's eyes.  
  
But Legolas kept his face averted, staring again into the flames, and licked his lips, trying to ready them for the work of speaking something that had only been voiced aloud by Calarlim before.  
  
"There was no one. It was all a ruse. Calarlim took me on a visit to her cousins in the northern regions of the Greenwood in my forty-eighth year, for Hiren Adar expressed concern that I had not sought permission to court anyone for bonding. He supposed there was no one of interest to me close to home and suggested we travel among the various parts of the Greenwood that I might meet other eligible ellyth (female elves) of my age. Calarlim told me he really believed none among the folk near the stronghold would countenance my troth because of the stigma cast upon me as the product of illicit union.  
  
"We stayed a good while in my mother's country, nearly the whole year. When we returned, Calarlim put it forth that I was betrothed to a warrior maiden from that region and marked me thus. Hiren Adar was pleased and professed the desire to meet my intended and her kin. Tirn'wathel had to delay the event three times, using excuses of all sorts. Another year later, word reached the fortress that the elleth had perished in a skirmish with spiders. In truth, this maiden never existed at all."  
  
"Why would your Tirn'wathel do this? Would your father have attempted to force a match for you to someone you could not abide, beyond your country's borders, for political reasons perhaps?"  
  
"Nay, Hiren Adar said I might bond with any elleth in Greenwood that my heart would wish, whatever her House or rank. I am not of high enough station to provide a strategic alliance, even if Hiren Adar wished for an external allegiance of that nature, which he does not. My two brothers fulfil the duty of cementing internal coalitions of strength and are bonded to ellyth from two of the most powerful among the Greenwood's noble Houses, ones that trace back to Neldoreth and Doriath in Beleriand."  
  
"Then what is it?"  
  
"I would never knowingly shame my family in any way. Yet if I seek a mate such that my heart truly desires, then I could not help but do so, for I long for that which is anathema among our culture."  
  
"Ah, this is regrettable," Galdor sighed, for he realised what Legolas was trying to tell him. "Your interest does not include females, and customs scorn a bond between same-sex mates?"  
  
"More than scorn, such is forbidden in my country. If anyone finds out, my father's House will be held up to ridicule. Thranduil's efficacy as a ruler will be questioned because he would present as weak for producing such an aberration within our people. Indeed, the fact of my existence, even lacking any immoral tendency, is enough reason for some detractors' aims. If the truth is revealed, he could lose the respect of even the most loyal among the leaders of the other Houses in the realm.  
  
"Some would say it is a perversion introduced by the Sindarin bloodlines, a weakness to be purged. My brothers and their offspring would be scrutinised for any example of the detested behaviour. I have three great nephews who have not reached Coll o Gweth and they would come under the taint of my…preference. Finally, I would be judged and banished from my home, never to see my family again this side of the Sundering Sea."  
  
All of this poured out from Legolas in a bitter stream of hurt and anguish, for while he dreaded anyone learning his secret, he felt wronged. Why must he be forced to display a false front for the rest of his life, ever denied a true bond-mate and the fulfilment such a union would bring?  
  
"Ai, can it become more complicated, young one?" Galdor wrapped an arm around the bare shoulders and pulled the youth close, sickened in his soul to hear this tale.  
  
In Gondolin, and now in Imladris and Mithlond, tolerance was a given and the choice for one's bonding-mate was not a cause for being ostracised from the community, much less banished from the country entirely. Lorien was more conservative, with same-sex pairings frowned upon but not prohibited by law or custom. The Greenwood's mores seemed too unforgiving and he wondered why this should be so, for the Pâd-en-Tawar did not list any restrictions regarding courting and bonding one way or the other.  
  
"The little farce prevented all of these things. Additionally, I have been exempted from further attempts at seeking a mate on the pretext that my heart is broken and I am barely fighting off fading," Legolas continued morosely.  
  
"So you preserve the family honour at the sacrifice of your own well-being. I deem it accurate to say that grief has been your companion even before the recent loss of your dear friends, though your intended never died. It is the same, to be sundered by death and to be held apart by rigourous laws too strict to endure. The soul cannot abide alone if it longs for union with another, and to force such a division is severely detrimental. We must remedy this, Legolas, or you will indeed be in danger of fading."  
  
"There is nothing to be done; the laws will not be changed to accommodate me."  
  
"We shall see. For now, let me proceed with the marking and then we will continue the discussion. I need time to think. We will begin." So saying Galdor took up the piercing stylus and Legolas' left arm.  
  
Into the red ink the brush dipped and drank deeply, emerging full and swollen with the blood coloured dye. Galdor swept the needles through the bristles and stabed the points down into the sign for Calarlim's name.  
  
"Boe Leitho hene in dangen uin gwist pain." (It is necessary to release she who is slain from all oaths.) Sadron intoned.  
  
"Sin endaith úhêb Calarlim sí." (These marks will not keep Calarlim here.) Legolas responded steadily, determined to be strong throughout the procedure in honour of his Naneth Edwen. "Eru, edra Mandos na Tirn'wathelen vell." (Eru, open Mandos to my dear Guardian.)  
  
Thus, the Noldo Lord set to work and with skill and precision made the changes necessary on the Wood Elf's body. Each time the needle was dipped into the ink and pushed beneath the Wood Elf's skin, the two stated the same simple sentences. When each mark of her name was overprinted in the red dye, Galdor began to ink the oath of his guardianship.  
  
Because the artistic script was delicate and detailed, this required several hours and annûn was approaching before the application was completed. He had thus been provided ample time to consider what action might be taken to circumvent the Greenwood's taboo, yet no reasonable option had as yet revealed itself. Galdor gave a final inspection to the heart-spiral and nodded approvingly.  
  
"It is done. You are under my care until the day you are bound in soul-union to your life-mate," he declared.  
  
"I shall heed your counsel in all matters, Tirn'wador," Legolas gave the proper response with a heavy heart.  
  
Sadron had spoken truly, at the first puncture he had felt Calarlim's presence departing and it hurt more than he had expected, for this pain of the soul had taken root in his spirit upon her death and he had thought it terrible enough before. Listlessly he reached for his shirt but Galdor stayed his hand.  
  
"Will you not even look upon my handiwork?" he queried gently and stood, pulling Legolas to his feet as well. A hand on either shoulder, Galdor half-pushed, half-led the archer to the bedroom where a long silvered glass was fixed within a carved wooden stand braced upon the floor.  
  
"Oh!" Legolas could not help the exclamation of surprise for he had never seen a mirror so large, nor viewed his full body thus from an exterior perspective. Tentatively he lifted his hand to trace out the new additions on the heart-spiral, where the bright red outline forever highlighted that which he had lost.  
  
"See, Calarlim will always remain close to your heart, no matter the distance death has forced upon you," said Galdor and met the tear bright eyes in the mirror with an encouraging smile.  
  
Legolas tried to smile back and gave a brief nod, but dropped his eyes as he fought to contain another surge of sorrow.  
  
"Go and dress while I put away the tools and straighten up the room," instructed Galdor and with another quick dip of his head Legolas hurried back to the hearth.  
  
The flames were nothing more than shimmering spots of incandescent orange among the white fluff of ashes and broken chunks of black charcoal, but the last bits of the tree continued to give off heat. Legolas gratefully sat upon the fire-warmed stone and lifted his shirt, dressing quickly as Galdor put everything away. A soft chime repeated three times and drifted through the house, making Legolas look up in curiosity to see if Tirn'wador would explain.  
  
"Tea time is thus announced," chuckled Galdor.  
  
"Ah, I have promised to take tea with Sam and Frodo and their kinsmen. How shall I find them? I never thought to ask where they would like to meet," Legolas felt a bit foolish upon realising this.  
  
"We shall go together, for I will not release you from my side until we have discussed your troubles further. Also, I promised a strengthening ritual for the council tomorrow and we must plan for Úcaul Annaur," answered the elder elf.  
  
"As you say, Tirn'wador," Legolas rose and followed him from the room.  
  
They found the Hobbits in their private chambers, a huge apartment meant to accommodate a family with children along and thus providing an extra bedroom and a larger sitting room. If the small folk were surprised or disgruntled to have an uninvited guest they did not show it, warmly welcoming Galdor, whom Legolas introduced as his Guardian.  
  
Meeting Merry and Pippin was a joy and the two soon had Legolas' thoughts diverted from his sorrows as they told a series of rather embarrassing stories concerning Frodo's antics while growing up. That prompted Sam and Frodo to retaliate in kind, and before the end of the simple repast the Wood Elf was close to tears again but this time from laughter rather than woe.  
  
For his part, Galdor was glad to see his new ward lighter in spirit and partaking, albeit sparingly, of sustenance again. They stayed with the Hobbits for two hours and then returned to the noble Lord's suite.  
  
At once Legolas moved to the sofa and took up the warm cloak still draped over the seat, wrapping it tight about him as he curled up against the ample cushions.  
  
"Still cold?" Galdor asked and did not wait for the answer before going to the fireplace and stirring up the embers. In minutes he had the blaze renewed and added sufficient fuel to maintain the fire for some time. That done he prepared another of the miruvor mixtures and presented it to Legolas. "Drink and we shall speak of Glorfindel."  
  
Legolas physically jumped at the abrupt introduction of this topic and nearly spilled the glass as he took it, feeling his ears grow warm with Tirn'wador's eyes upon him. He simultaneously yearned and dreaded to explore the subject of the Balrog Slayer. He took a deep draught and steeled himself to meet Galdor's kindly, expectant gaze. "As you say, Tirn'wador." Legolas had never been so grateful for the set and proper phrases before this night. _And for this tonic._ This being the third portion of it in a relatively short time, the woodland messenger felt its effects begin almost immediately.  
  
"He is a worthy suitor." Galdor began as he sat beside the woodland archer.  
  
"He cannot be my suitor nor can I become his; he is male."  
  
"A technicality only applicable in Greenwood. Here in Imladris and my home in Mithlond, that is an irrelevant factor."  
  
"But I live in Greenwood."  
  
"Glorfindel lives here."  
  
"There, even without the law's strictures against it the match is doomed."  
  
"I do not see why. You have already said you are not expected to provide any sort of official duty of state in Greenwood. Could you not spend much of your time away from the trees?"  
  
"Nay! I am needed; every archer is vitally important. I could never abandon my trees, my people. You cannot know what it is like; the Shadow tries to rob Greenwood of its very soul while the Orcs from Dol Guldur seek to eliminate every elf in the forest. Shall I go away when such trials accost my country?"  
  
"Then the match itself is not undesirable to you, only the estrangement from your home holds you back?"  
  
"I…that is…he is worthy, I am sure. Yet I do not know him well, nor even if he desires such a thing."  
  
"It is better not to withhold your thoughts, for I know Glorfindel well and can best determine if he would make a fitting mate for you. Over both his life-times I have observed that ellon, Legolas, and I perceive that he hungers for you. The question disturbing me is whether there is anything more than that, and yet in your current dilemma that may be all we have to build upon. You do find him appealing, yes?"  
  
A long silence followed, broken by a nervous gulp of the restorative liquid and then, "Aye," the assent, barely audible, was given.  
  
"What underlies this attraction?"  
  
"I do not know, he is just…superb," Legolas felt his cheeks must be on fire so difficult was this to say and yet somehow the word had simply just escaped. He took another swallow and did not object when Galdor pulled him closer and began to gently rub his back and shoulders.  
  
"Define that." These words were clearly spoken through a large grin. "What about him is so exemplary in comparison to any other elf you have met?" Galdor pushed, increasing the rhythmic massage down the silvan's back and arms. A light sigh and a sudden easing of tension informed him the elf was fully under the influence of the drug and he smiled again.  
  
"He stood up for me," Legolas answered, feeling more at ease with the ancient elf, grateful for the physical contact as much as for the non-judgemental acceptance of his desire for a male elf. He shivered and sighed again; it was so good to let go of all the worry and allow his Guardian to manage things for a time. Legolas' head dropped back to rest upon the Noldo's shoulder.  
  
"At the borders?"  
  
"Aye, and at the pools. He intervened in Erestor's plans to defame me."  
  
"This is a quality you admire then, his proclivity to defend you even against his fellows and friends."  
  
Another brief nod confirmed this statement. "Even more, he respects me. He did not laugh or scorn my words, nor allow the other warriors to do so uncontested."  
  
"And at the baths, what happened there?"  
  
"Erestor said some rather indecent things about me and boldly stated that Glorfindel had chosen me as his next lover."  
  
"He said this in your presence?" Galdor's tone was shocked.  
  
"In Quenya. He does not know, no one does, except Glorfindel, that I speak it well." In a less-fuzzy section of his brain Legolas regarded himself in amazed dismay, for he had just revealed something he most certainly should not. He vaguely wondered why he did not feel alarmed at this sudden loosening of his tongue, attributed it correctly to the drugged wine, and blithely let the idea vanish from his thoughts.  
  
"That is interesting!" announced Galdor with a short laugh as he watched the silvan slip deeper into a state of mellow inebriation courtesy of the potent drug, his inhibitions falling away one by one. "Remember, all that you share with me remains between us. Fear not, for I will not betray your confidence. You told Glorfindel of this talent?" It was this that the ancient elf found truly intriguing. "What made you trust him so?"  
  
"Was it a mistake?" Legolas tried to focus on his Guardian but found his head too heavy to lift from its present placement upon the elder's shoulder. He had a clear view of the noble elf's strong chin and jaw and smiled, for he could tell Sadron was also still grinning widely.  
  
"Nay, not at all. Never has he betrayed a secret to my knowledge. He seems disposed to take your part. If he had divulged anything to Elrond, I would have been told at once, for I represent Mithlond, a strong ally to Imladris. I assure you I found this information quite unexpected.  
  
"You decided quickly to encourage Glorfindel's interest. You had ample opportunity to observe him closely at the baths, is that why? What is it about him that stirs your blood?"  
  
"It is as I have said. He is…superb." this last word emerged more as a throaty purr of pure desire than a simple word of descriptive praise and Legolas sighed again after uttering it. Behind him Galdor's low chuckle rumbled through him and incited a light giggle from the archer.  
  
"So you would have him for your lover." The only response to this was a lazy lolling nod of the golden head. "And how shall it be between you, then. What would you have for your first encounter?"  
  
That brought the colour back to the Wood Elf's face instantly and chased the smile away, replacing it with a wide-eyed look of stricken embarrassment. The elder noted this and started rubbing the archer's arms soothingly as the silence stretched into minutes.  
  
"I do not know anything about…joining…between males," Legolas managed at last and hastily drank the remainder of the tonic, wishing there was more. He did not even feel it when Galdor removed the glass from his hand and set it aside. "I understand about male and female and the making of children. None of that applies; does it?"  
  
"Some of it does, for your body will respond as any male's. The question I believe you are asking me is how to accommodate that state of arousal. None of this was discussed between you and Calarlim?"  
  
"Nay, for there was no notion of fulfilling such a desire. Her counsel was on how to deal with such urges privately."  
  
"You are completely untouched by any but your own hands." Galdor's tone grew gentler then and he smiled at the short nod of acknowledgement this provoked. "What do you imagine when you handle this specific problem?"  
  
"That it is another touching me," he began awkwardly, "another's hands and lips caressing my ears and my neck, my chest and…my…arousal." Legolas was silent for several heartbeats but Galdor gave no reaction to this scandalous statement at all other than an encouraging nod of his head.  
  
"Tirn'wador, I have never been kissed, not with desire and need. I wish to be kissed and to kiss back," he announced quietly. _And I would have Glorfindel be the one._ "I want to touch the same way; I want to give pleasure and see that this is so. Glorfindel would welcome this?"  
  
"Aye, but he is not a fantasy under your control, Legolas. He is a real being, not merely a mythical hero from a child's story book. He is a vital and virile male and would make a most demanding lover," Galdor cautioned and felt Legolas tremble under his hands. The Wood Elf shifted uncomfortably and the Noldo Lord had no doubts as to the cause.  
  
"Not a dream, real," Legolas whispered, and shivered again. He sought to reorient his body, hoping to ease the discomfort in his groin as this talk stimulated his libido. "I would have that be so, Tirn'wador. You can arrange this? He will become my Faer Hebron."  
  
"Perhaps. Yet what of your fears of banishment from Greenwood? Your desire has quickly overwhelmed your dread of censure."  
  
"They do not need to know about it. You will not tell them; Glorfindel need never go there. I can remain Athedrainyn between Greenwood and Imladris, spend time in both places."  
  
"What of your duty as a warrior? Do not cast off your just concerns for one experience of passion's fulfilment."  
  
"Then I will go home afterwards and Glorfindel will stay here. I suppose we shall not meet again very often until we cross to Eldamar."  
  
"That hardly seems fair to either of you. Is that all you wish for, then? To experience this joining and then depart?"  
  
"Nay. I would have him love me. I want to be loved and to love in return. I want a life-mate, Tirn'wador. Why can I not have this be Glorfindel? He is perfect."  
  
Galdor could not suppress a light laugh at this naive demand and bold assessment of Glorfindel's qualities."He is not flawless for no elf is. Everyone has faults and Glorfindel is no exception. Remember what I said: he is flesh and blood, more than a legend in a book. And he has had some rather bad experiences regarding pairing up with other elves. As in all cases, the problems were not entirely due to his partner's failings alone.  
  
"You find him appealing and he has already made his interest in you plain. But these are often not the same thing, Legolas: desire and love. You crave his touch, he longs to claim you. That is a purely physical attraction. You have only met him this morn; whether there can be more between you is a serious consideration." The ancient elder's lecture ceased as the silvan warrior emitted a groan of discontented irritation.  
  
"Why can I not have both these things? I would love him and please him also."  
  
"Would you now? Are you so ready to commit your soul to this one elf? If that is true, could you leave him so easily?"  
  
"Nay, you are right. I could not bear to be parted, if he loves me and I him. Yet I could never bring him to my home. Thus I am to be banished after all." Legolas nearly sobbed to utter this, his greatest fear, aloud.  
  
"Hold, Cuthenin, for you have leaped far ahead of the present! You cannot declare love to one you do not yet know. Nor do we have any notions of Glorfindel's thoughts on seeking a life-mate. Thus, it is premature to sentence yourself to exile." Yet in his heart Galdor felt that Legolas' prediction would prove accurate, for there was in the Wood Elf's voice a note of acceptance, as if his heart had recognised to whom it belonged and felt both at peace and torn in two.  
  
"You will see to it then. He must complete Faras-Uin-Ind first. (Hunting of the Heart - formal courtship) Then we can think of some means to conceal the bond from my people."  
  
Galdor considered silently for several minutes, worried now that he had raised the youth's hopes beyond reasonable expectation, for Glorfindel had not seemed overly eager about assuming any role that brought him into contact with Legolas' soul. _His body, yes, Glorfindel will gladly lay claim to that. As for the Wood Elf's heart, the Vanya is unlikely to be open to such a gift. I must make discreet inquiries and seek another. Legolas will be bound to agree to his Tirn'wador's choice._ He sighed and squeezed the archer's shoulders consolingly.  
  
"I shall speak with him; no more can I promise. If I decide this union would do greater harm to your spirit then you must accept my evaluation. Yet I will seek for you a Faer Hebron, for Úcaul Annaur must be achieved as soon as may be possible. For now, I will escort you back to the talan, for you are restless over a problem you must work out on your own." So saying, Galdor got up and offered a hand to Legolas, who was very red of face over this allusion to his state of arousal, which had not subsided but rather grown more frustratingly intractable.  
  
TBC


	10. Eyes in the Twilight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounded and sick at heart, Legolas arrives at Imladris as Thranduil's messenger on the eve of the Council of Elrond. He meets Glorfindel and the two form a unique bond. Through the rites of an ancient religion, Glorfindel becomes Legolas' Soul Keeper and saves him from certain fading due to grief. Love blossoms between the unlikely couple as the great events of the ring War are about to unfold. Features Legolas as Thranduil's love child rather than a legitimate heir.

**Cuthenin (True-Bow)  
by F.E.Morton**  
UnBeta'd  
  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.  
  
 _thoughts_  
(elvish translations)  


* * *

**Paenui Peth: Hin vi Tinnu (Part Ten: Eyes in the Twilight)**  
  
Galdor decided it was pointless to try and conceal the long hours Legolas had spent in his chambers, considering the news of it had probably already spread throughout the household, and led him to the main passage and down to the first floor. Cuthenin was a bit shaky on his feet due to the effects of the miruvor and Galdor kept a steadying hand upon the archer's elbow as they walked. Ironically, they encountered no one in the corridors and made the journey out the rear door without incident. Yet, though they did not meet anyone along the way, their progress was not unobserved.  
  
Erestor's page, Lochgaer, had followed the emissary from Mithlond and the Wood Elf from the dining hall, on instructions from his Lord, and then stood vigil outside the elder's suite. Thus had he been so ready to hand when Galdor sought aid in acquiring wood for a fire in the hearth. Hidden in a shadowed alcove near the turning of the stairs, the aspiring diplomat had also learned of tea with the Hobbits and presently watched the two elves depart the chambers together a second time.  
  
Lochgaer trailed them long enough to note the direction their exit would take, concluding correctly the destination was Glorfindel's abode, for Aragorn's efforts to make the lowly talan comfortable had not gone unremarked among the staff. Finally free of his task, the page hastened to make his report to Erestor and then share his evaluation of the messenger with his contemporaries.  
  
Oblivious to this, Galdor and his ward proceeded through the grounds. Abruptly, Legolas halted and his immobility forced the noble Lord of the Tree to cease moving also. Paused in the herb garden between the kitchen and the main house, the Wood Elf stared in blatant delight at the uncovered expanse of menel, eyes reflecting the icy sparkle of the moon and the Evening Star.   
  
The clouds had moved on without dropping their cargo of moisture upon the valley of the Bruinen and the last hints of Anor's rays had fled from the lower reaches of the welkin. The atmosphere shaded from a pale and hazy lavender hue into a deepening indigo near the zenith of the outer circle of Arda's boundary with the void.  
  
Only the brightest points had yet appeared in the heavens but Ithil was already climbing the twilit dome of the evening sky and shone brilliantly, a mithril crescent shadowed by the Silmaril of Eärendil. Thinêl (Venus - Eärendil's Star) crowded close to the shimmering sickle, boldly poised in splendorous gleam, outshining every other jewel visible in the velvet veil of night.  
  
"Tirion takes counsel with the Mariner," Legolas whispered, sharing a jubilant grin with his newly chosen Tirn'wador.  
  
It seemed as an omen for him, a signal of the right choice he had made in permitting an outlander such an important role in his life. Just as Tirion often wandered on his course and needed Eärendil's guidance, so too would he require the sage advice of a Guardian in order to navigate the difficult path that lay ahead. "In Greenwood, it is rare to have such an uncluttered view of the sky. Tonight it will be filled with stars; I could look upon them for hours and not grow weary of the sight."  
  
"Aye, this is a fine place to observe the beauty of Varda's gift to elfkind. Yet Imladris cannot boast the numbers visible from the beach. In Mithlond, menel seems to take up more of the space than the ground, for the sea remains dreary and restless through the dark hours. There is nothing to draw the eye away from contemplation of the numerous constellations. Many enjoy observing the stars while stretched out on the warm white sands of the falas (shore)."  
  
"I would like to do that."  
  
"Mayhap someday you shall. I would welcome you in my home."  
  
Legolas allowed himself to be tugged into motion again and the pair continued through the quiet grounds. It was a time for rest after the day's labours, a break before the formal evening meal was served and the camaraderie shared afterward in the Hall of Fire, and few elves were out on the paths and by-ways. Legolas found this strange, for in Greenwood the trees were never empty and the twilight was as likely a time as any other to encounter one's friends and neighbours.  
  
 _More so, if one desires privacy during tinnu (twilight) a screen needs be drawn about the talan._ Not for the last time, he considered how very different each of the elven realms was from the others. Mithlond seemed strangest of all, considering its conjunction to the Sundering Sea.  
  
"What is the ocean like, Tirn'wador?"  
  
"I could not hope to describe it to you acurately." Galdor reflected in silence for a moment before resuming. "It is like a lake that is endless, yet its surface is a deep green rather than the clear blue seen at Evendim. It is not smooth and reflecting like the waters at Long Lake but quivers, trembling and tumbling over itself as a running stream trips upon stones.  
  
"It sings perpetually like a river yet its voice is low and rises from the abyssal depths, exhaling in a sorrowful lament that fills the air, underscoring every other sound and infiltrating to one's very soul. Its song resembles the beating of a mighty heart so omnipresent is it and yet one never tires of hearing its rhythmic surge and pull.  
  
"And it is filled with living things even as a river or lake. Sometimes great beasts, larger than many of the ships I have been on, can be seen rolling with the waves and blowing high fountains of mist and water into the air. They have no arms or legs, as fish do not, yet neither have they shimmering scales nor gills for breathing. To look into their eyes you would swear there is a thinking mind staring back upon you, and it is clear these are not ordinary swimmers. Dinin Thuiadryn (Underwater Breathers) they are called.  
  
"There are others of similar kind, smaller and finer in appearance, that love to swim alongside the boats as we go out upon the swells. They seem to smile and chatter a strange speech almost, so intelligent is their demeanour."  
  
"Ai! Why have I never heard of such wondrous creatures?"  
  
"You live among the trees, Legolas. I would guess no one in Greenwood has ever sailed upon Aeron and returned to speak of it."  
  
"Nay there must be some remaining who came from Beleriand and stood upon the falas before turning away to march east."  
  
"Well, perhaps you are right and yet I am doubtful. The reason has to do with the call of the sea. Among the Teleri, love of the ocean runs strong in the blood. Once awakened there is no peace for the heart or mind as long as an elf remains away from it. The Wood Elves would be tormented to see this wonder and then return to the world of branches and green leaves.  
  
"Any silvan exposed to Aeron would perpetually hear the song of the surf and smell the salt in the watery air, pining for it and eventually grieving over the loss. Once sea-longing sets in, there is no relief for the afflicted save passage to Aman."  
  
"Could they not reside beside the ocean as your folk do?"  
  
"Some do for long years, reluctant to leave behind family and the lives they have known, yet these are mostly those with some Sindar or Noldor blood in their pedigrees. I have observed numerous silvan elves, mostly Galadhrim, who arrive in the Havens escorting family or friends wishing to leave Middle-earth. Some cannot turn away and depart along with their loved ones. Others gather up their courage and go from the seaside, returning to their homes and kin for a time, sometimes for centuries. Yet they always come back to the coast and sail away for Aman in the end."  
  
"Your words dishearten me, for while I would dearly like to meet these Dinin Thuiadryn, I would not wish to be torn from Greenwood and my people because of it."  
  
By now the pair were far from the main house and nearing Glorfindel's walled garden. The Balrog Slayer was not within, however, having left with his warriors before annûn for night patrol as on the previous evening. A lighted lantern hung from an elegantly wrought post at the gate and illuminated the garden path beside his house. Galdor stopped there and released Legolas' arm.  
  
"Will you be all right on your own from here?" the elder asked with a kindly smile.  
  
"Aye, Trin'wador. I thank you for the escort yet I would have found my way without it. I have no need of a nursemaid to see me through the next hours," Legolas answered, no longer mindful of his tongue in the ancient elf's presence thanks to a lingering, light-headed feeling of intoxication.  
  
"Indeed! Yet I did not wish you to take a wrong turn and end up in a strange place. The miruvor drink still has you in its grip and that is as I intended. Think on what we have discussed and then sleep for a time. When you wake, seek me out and we shall conduct Pennas Lunnen (History Sung). Let all within the Hall of Fire know the valour of your comrades."  
  
"Aye, Tirn'wador, that is fitting." Legolas' felt pleased to be offered the chance to present the story of his friends' lives to the Noldor. _All shall hear of the strength found among the Wood Elves._ "Aniron Galu lín, Sadron." (I desire your Blessing, Sadron.)  
  
Galdor inclined his head solemnly and placed the palm of his right hand over Legolas' heart. "Bellas ar Ithor en Tawar le beria; Sîdh a Post en Estë le toba. Oltho mae, Cuthenin." (The Strength and Wisdom of Tawar protect you; the Peace and Rest of Estë cover you. Dream well, True-bow.)  
  
"Le hantëan, Tirn'wador." (I thank you, Guardian.) Legolas bowed his head gratefully and when he raised it to meet Galdor's eyes found his heart lightened even as the elder's touch left him. He smiled. "Ab'eveditham." (We shall meet later.)  
  
"Ab'eveditham." Galdor watched beside the gate until he could no longer see the archer's form and then returned to the Last Homely House, hoping to speak with Elrond and Mithrandir before the evening meal.  
  
Legolas entered through the gate and continued on across the silent walled gardens surrounding Glorfindel's house, glancing curiously at the darkened abode as he passed. Glorfindel's home was not even half as large or grand as the Last Homely House yet even so it had two levels and the same high-peaked red-tiled roof. He wondered how the re-born warrior's decor would differ but the curtains were drawn and Legolas could not see in, to his disappointment. Legolas was tempted to try the door and see if he might at least peer inside, yet he resisted the urge and continued to the grove of oaks.  
  
Once under the cover of the ever-leaved hardwoods, the light of Ithil diminished and it was more difficult to make things out. Legolas climbed using direction from the tree itself since this was but the second time he had been in its branches and as yet did not know by rote the best route upwards. No sooner had he achieved the platform and taken a step than his foot collided with a heavy metal object and he exclaimed in dismay.  
  
 _That was not here before._  
  
Realising the interior was no longer free of clutter, Cuthenin waited for his vision to adjust and then made his way cautiously through the looming obstacles of solid furnishings toward a brighter spot close to the trunk. There his hand discovered a lantern and a flint on the table beside it, and this he lighted in order to get a look at his quarters.  
  
He had to laugh.  
  
Aragorn had gone to a great deal of trouble to make the old talan more appealing, and thus it was crammed with all manner of things Legolas would never have a use for in his everyday life. A small round table and two chairs were collected in one corner right next to the wrought iron brazier on which he had just stubbed his tow. A washstand was set up on the opposite corner complete with a large supply of extra towels and toiletries, a boar bristle hairbrush, a tortoiseshell comb, a nail-file, and mirror.  
  
There was even a settee with space enough for two people and a pair of matching cushions large enough for seating on the floor. The wooden planks were no longer strewn with leaves and twigs but swept clean, and upon them lay no less than three carpets of thick soft wool.  
  
Beyond all this was a thick feather mattress so large the silvan was certain it had been pulled from someone's bedstead. It was laid out on the floor on the west facing side of the talan, and this happened to provide the platform's only open view through the trees. Legolas already knew the vista included the Last Homely House and the cascading falls beyond it.  
  
The softly plump sleeping pallet was covered over with an exquisitely embroidered, green satin coverlet. There were pillows and extra blankets galore piled upon this bed and Legolas had to wonder what the human imagined his normal resting habits might be to supply such luxury for a physical requirement that visited him so seldom. He certainly would not find such repose this night despite Tirn'wador's instruction to do so.  
  
Cuthenin shook his head and smiled, making his way by the light of the lamp to a large trunk situated so as to double as a bedside table. It must be the one from the closet in the main house, he surmised, noting the painted scenes on its exterior. He lifted the lid and found within more of the paper wrapped, labelled garments from the man's early adulthood, so many he could change attire every hour and not run out of clothing to wear for several days. Nearby were the customary wicker baskets: one for clothes in need of laundering and another for carrying necessities to the baths. Aragorn had seen to everything and the archer gave thought to expressing his appreciation for such abundant courtesy.  
  
 _He has fought with my brothers and knows the austerity of a silvan warrior's life. Aragorn hopes to make my stay here as different from that as may be._  
  
Legolas shut the lid and set his lamp upon it, deciding he should at least attempt to adhere to his Guardian's counsel. He still had the elder's cloak about his shoulders and this he laid aside neatly, for though he had been inexplicably cold throughout the day he now found his temperature uncomfortably elevated. The reason was not difficult to divine; the discussion regarding his feelings toward Glorfindel had heated him up so that he longed for nothing more than to discard every scrap of fabric covering his body. Doing so would tend to inspire following Tirn'wador's first directive to think on their conversation and that would lead him to finally confront his overt and aching arousal.  
  
It crossed his mind briefly to see if there was a privacy screen stowed away somewhere but he discarded the notion; the elves of Imladris did not inhabit the trees and thus there was no one nearby to observe him. Cuthenin disrobed, never imagining that his actions might provide entertainment for someone so far beyond his immediate perception.  
  
Pacing within his study in the Last Homely House, Erestor was fraught with curiosity over Lochgaer's report. He knew the Lord from Mithlond was some sort of spiritual leader among those still clinging to the ancient superstitions, yet wondered what could require so long a conference behind closed doors.  
  
 _And what of the elder's failed attempt to ensure the meeting's secrecy?_  
  
The Chief Advisor suddenly wished he did know more about the Wood Elves' customs. Why would the silvan enter Galdor's rooms under his own power then require aid to walk upright upon leaving? The page had said Legolas looked slightly inebriated, and such a state did not seem consistent with any sort of sacred ritual in Erestor's opinion.  
  
 _For what purpose would Galdor ply the youth with drink enough to make him intoxicated? Not a noble one, I am thinking. Mayhap the Lord of the Tree has succumbed to his baser instincts and debauched the youth._  
  
Yet as soon as the thought occurred he rejected it; Galdor was not partial to males, from all accounts the Chief Advisor had heard, and his conduct was never disreputable.  
  
 _Then what is this about?_  
  
Erestor considered following the pair and paying a call on the messenger but then had a better idea, one that would ensure he did not run into Galdor on the way there. Quickly he snatched up one of his optical devises and hastened to the observatory. If he was lucky then he would be able to satisfy one of his questions, namely whether Legolas spent the night in his talan or entered into Glorfindel's house instead, there to await the warrior's return from patrol.  
  
The advisor had learned long ago that his rooftop platform afforded not only an unobstructed view of the heavens but of every spot in the valley not hidden by trees, Glorfindel's home included. That he had used his clever visual magnifiers for spying on his lover was also true, and thus had he learned of the Vanya's infidelity so many centuries past. He hoped the silvan would light a lamp and give away his location: the talan or his new lover's home.  
  
As soon as he reached the roof he saw the bright glint of the lantern aloft in the trees and trained his telescope upon it. The placement of that talan had been deliberately chosen to make it visible from the Last Homely House.  
  
Nearly an Age ago, a break in the cover had been created when one of the oaks was lost during a lightening strike. New growth had sprung up but never flourished due to the existing trees' demands upon the soil and light. Thus the treetop playroom of Elrond's children had never been as private as they had all supposed and their tutor had always had them under his eye.  
  
What he saw this night made him gasp in shock one second and grin with lascivious delight the next. The Wood Elf was stretched out naked on his bed, pleasuring himself.  
  
Illuminated in the soft glow of golden light, Legolas lay upon his back, one arm curved over his head, face turned slightly away into the crook of his elbow. The hand of that arm was slowly stimulating his ear, fingertips languidly running along the rim and up to the point, upon which he bestowed a slight squeeze before retreating back down to the lobe. Over and over again in a steady rhythm he applied this tantalising touch, and that it was enjoyable was beyond doubt, for his chest heaved in deep, gusty gasps and his head would occasionally arch back, exposing more of his long white neck in the process. There his carotid artery would be throbbing, though even Erestor's powerful spyglass could not reveal so fine a detail.  
  
The magnification was more than sufficient to permit distinctly minute observation of nearly every other aspect of the archer's physique. _And his exquisitely erotic responses to the indolent gratification those elegant hands provide._ Erestor let the device traverse down the lean youthful body, pausing to enjoy the vision of peaked, maroon nipples rising and falling with every heavy breath. The advisor licked his lips, wondering what those small nodes of sensitive flesh tasted like and whether Legolas would cry out to have them licked and nibbled, suckled and tweaked. Erestor swallowed, finding his own suspiration accelerated and his sexual appetite awaked. One hand dropped to his crotch and caressed the swelling organ trapped against his thigh.  
  
He let the telescope continue its exploration, halting at the navel, a small and inwardly folded oval that served to entice lingering appreciation of a taut belly and its ridges of straining abdominal muscles. Oh, to run his hands over the skin there, to learn if the Wood Elf was ticklish, to feel the fine line of hairs running from the little dent in the inviting body down into the tight curls of pubic hair.  
  
Erestor's enhanced vision followed that path, even though he could not detect any such lineation, and gasped a second time. Legolas was not completely bare, yet only a delicate fuzz surrounded his genitals. The archer's penis arose red and hard from between his legs, the tight sac of his scrotum equally smooth and darkly coloured beneath the organ's root.  
  
Cuthenin's fist was wrapped tight around his solid shaft, working it with excruciating sloth, squeezing and pumping with steady pressure, twisting just slightly as he pulled his cock forward from his stomach. Up and down with mesmerising regularity he applied his practised touch but at such a rate that orgasm would be gradual and probably quite euphoric when it came.  
  
Erestor's heart gave a jolt and his cock flexed as Legolas unexpectedly lifted his hips to thrust forcefully into the tightening grip. Two clear beads of liquid oozed from the slit in the glans and the silvan's thumb expertly swiped them up and smeared them all along the slender sex as he continued his massaging stimulation. The Noldo Lord gaped, breathing audibly through his dry mouth as his free hand hastened to untie his leggings and get his erection free. He began to masturbate, matching his pace to the Wood Elf, and groaned when Cuthenin repeated that pelvic tilt and shove manoeuvre.  
  
Abruptly, Erestor whisked the optical instrument back to the averted face, wishing he could see the Wood Elf's expression as his ecstasy built and he neared release. The silvan still had his countenance turned away but then, as if responding to the voyeur's thoughts, he switched hands, moving his head so that he could reach the other ear and give it the same attention. Erestor exhaled a low moan; Legolas was completely lost in his fantasy, eyes squeezed shut and brow furrowed, cheeks flushed and lips parted. His tongue darted out to moisten them and Erestor was sure he had just whispered something into the night air.  
  
Ah, to feel those lips close around his aching penis, that tongue lavishing his throbbing cock with tantalisingly dilatory licks, the acute tingle as the sound of Legolas' appreciative hum of delight surrounded his ardent erection.  
  
Erestor stopped his actions momentarily to sharpen the focus of the scope and when next he pointed it at Cuthenin he could see the entire body more clearly. There was a sheen of sweat on the Wood Elf's labouring chest and the colours of the tattoo on his breast seemed more vivid. He enjoyed the sight of the nipples again but impatiently resumed scrutiny of the genitals.  
  
Legolas was gently rolling his balls between his fingers and Erestor copied him, crying out incoherently at the sensation this evoked. He had an unobstructed view of the archer's stiff erection, slightly curved and slick from the slit's secretions, and Erestor decided he would not mind at all having a taste of that.  
  
The silvan's hand went back to work on his cock, moving a bit more quickly now, and a sweep of the lens of the spyglass up the svelte body revealed the other fingers relentlessly teasing those tiny points of ruby flesh adorning the elf's chest.  
  
"Oh Valar," Erestor whispered and once more had to swallow.  
  
The Noldo was burning for release and quickened his ministrations to make it so. Just when he thought he could bear the tension no longer, Cuthenin's orgasm came, overtaking the youth with enough force to make him arch off the mattress in rigid tremors of passionate fulfilment. Long jets of creamy fluid spurted from his cock and spilled upon his stomach as he continued to pump.  
  
"Ai!" The sight sent Erestor into his own spiral of ecstasy and he dropped the telescope to the floor in order to grip the banister of the platform as the sensation consumed him. He watched his semen stream forth until gradually the flow subsided, leaning heavily on the rail as he attempted to catch his breath. After a time he was able to breathe more normally and became capable of rational thought. Erestor made his appearance decent and retrieved the spyglass, training it again on the talan.  
  
Cuthenin lay limp in the aftermath of release, struggling to resume steady respiration, his entire body flushed a soft rose from the excitement, hair a wild tangle of golden threads upon the pillow, eyes half-lidded and mouth agape. Then he stretching languidly upon the sheets, smiling, and reached for a cloth to wipe off the evidence of his ejaculation, giving his relaxed penis an endearing little tug as he did so. That done he turned upon his side, presenting his unknown admirer a fine view of his rear, and thereafter remained still.  
  
Erestor found himself reluctant to lower the scope and continued gazing upon the slumbering elf until the gong for the evening meal sounded dimly from his rooms below. With a sigh he turned from his scrutiny at last, deciding Glorfindel definitely did not deserve to be the one to introduce the visiting warrior to the carnal delights of male coupling.  
  
The evening repast was an extravagant affair, nearly on the order of a grand feast. Though this meal was always formal in Elrond's house, the numerous guests had elevated the function to a degree of elegance usually enjoyed only on holidays and official state visits. Everyone arrived dressed to suit the occasion and with high expectations for the fare about to be consumed. Everyone save the messenger from King Thranduil.  
  
Legolas did not appear at this gathering for he was still sleeping, having truly not rested more than a hour or two after his arrival at dawn. Yet he was young and physical recovery was rapid, thus he did not dream much past midnight. By then, most of the guests, at least the mortal ones, had begun to retire, leaving the Hall of Fire to the elves and their many songs and dances.  
  
Galdor was not within the magnificent abode either, for after dining he had retreated to the path beside the kitchen gardens, there to await his ward's arrival.  
  
"Suilad, Legolas," he called as the Wood Elf approached, smiling to see him rested and more at ease. "You are ready for the Pennas Lunnen, I see, and at dawn we will break fast together. Now let the Valley of the Bruinen ring with the glory of your friends' courageous deeds!"  
  
"Sui pedich, Tirn'wador." (As you say, Guardian) Legolas could not suppress his justified pride to do so, for never had such a ceremony been performed amid outlanders in any account he had ever heard and he was honoured to perform this solemn and glorious chant for his friends. The two walked in silence and the archer gave another glance up into the heavens, now filled with the brilliance of a multitude of stars, and smiled.  
  
Ahead the Last Homely House was brightly lit and from the mansion poured the luminous glow of hearth and lantern, the merry sound of fair elven voices, and the music of harps and pipes. Long before he reached the main doors, through which Legolas had never entered before, the silvan warrior announced to the revellers that a new experience was upon them. Inhaling deeply, he sang out in a voice as pristine and clear as the glinting gems of Varda's grace.  
  
"Sí lú an rîn, sui hûnin niniel or rimai sui sîr, nîr nînath sui ross." (Now is the time for remembrance, as our sorrowful hearts overflow like rivers, weeping tears like rain.)  
  
"Linnam an adhôr ind dhîm ah gell uireb." (We sing to replace sad thoughts with joy everlasting.) Galdor's exquisite baritone called in answer.  
  
"Linnam o mellyn dangen vi maeth; hyn aun cuil uireb, awarthol bair ar nothrim an min theled fael." (We sing of friends slain in battle; they gave life eternal, forsaking homes and families for one just purpose.) Legolas resumed the chant.  
  
"Linnam o cairdh hyn dely ar berin. Na gyrn hall. Eglerio maethyr dainnen!" (We sing of their deeds brave and fell. By their valour they are exalted. Praise the fallen warriors!) Galdor refrained.  
  
"Sí lú an rîn, sui hûnin niniel or rimai sui sîr, nîr nînath sui ross." (Now is the time for remembrance, as our sorrowful hearts overflow like rivers, weeping tears like rain.) The Wood Elf completed the antiphon.    
  
Every other sound had ceased upon the first notes of the sombre dirge and yet the air came alive, charged as surely as if a great bolt of energy was about to be unleashed from menel, filled with the anticipation of the First-born and the mortals alike within the house. Then the chant rang out again, dignified and profound, limned with majesty and grave solemnity, more distinctly now for the singers were closer. A third time the pentad resounded and this time the notes echoed through the Hall of Fire, for Legolas and Galdor had entered in.  
  
Then followed the long Lay of Calarlim, for Cuthenin could not help but emphasise the account of this dear one's life above the others'. Spellbound the Noldor listened, for the archer's voice was as fair as his form and combined the allure was irresistable. None dared join the soloist nor would the musicians so much as pluck a string, and it was said later the Lord of the Valley and his sons wept for the silvan's loss. So sweet was the sound of his singing that even those already abed, even the doughty dwarves and Rangers, awoke with tears upon their cheeks and a sorrow so keen it pained their hearts to listen to the strains of the silvan's lament.  
  
As the first rays of Anor breached the high barrier wall of the eastern cliffs, the final overtones of the last stanzas died away in a softening echo that was swallowed by the omnipresent roar of the falls. Yet faintly did the returning troops of the night patrol discern the song and hastened to reach their destination, curious to know what had passed during their absence. At the lead sped Glorfindel, urging Asfaloth for speed, for he was certain he knew the source of this subdued and mournful hymn. Thus with great splendour the elven warriors were borne into the grounds of Elrond's house and were met by a quiet and restrained populace. There was no jesting put forth nor cutting word spoken of the messenger from any mouth that morn.  
  
Glorfindel strode briskly to his home, hoping to find his guest at the talan, and was disappointed to find the platform deserted. Hurriedly he washed and changed his attire, not even considering the reason for his impatient haste, knowing only a need to see Cuthenin and learn that everything was right with him. Oft through Ithil's hours his thoughts had wandered to the archer, distracting the Vanya noble with concerns over his well-being and conflicted considerations regarding the role of Faer Hebron. Thus it was with no small degree of dissatisfaction that Glorfindel was met at his very gate by Galdor and accompanied the elder Lord back inside the house.  
  
Now Erestor had been in the Hall of Fire and received the full impact of the Pennas Lunnen. This did naught but increase his desire to prevent the youth from becoming Glorfindel's lover, for in his mind it was unjust for his former paramour to acquire such a prize after the shameful way he had been treated. How could the Valar allow Glorfindel to not only go unpunished for his wrongs but actually reward his infidelity by granting him the first taste of this virgin warrior?  
  
Even more, he could discern the silvan was capable of great depth of love and that such a gift might be tendered to Glorfindel was galling. He would not permit such to come to pass. Glorfindel spurned the advisor's love, why should he become the recipient of the Wood Elf's heart?  
  
 _He denies me, now let him know the sting of like rejection. Legolas shall not bind his soul to Glorfindel._  
  
Erestor watched and waited as Legolas and Galdor took the morning meal together then parted. The messenger headed out doors and the advisor followed after a discreet interval. Yet no sooner had Erestor stepped outside than he lost track of the Wood Elf. Perplexed, he wandered into the gardens, reasoning the silvan might like to tour the grounds, and followed the small brook as it wended its way amid the beds and the foliage.  
  
After some time of this aimless walking, Erestor halted beside the stream within a small stand of beeches and pondered where he should search next. Would his elusive prey return to the talan or perhaps seek out the Hobbits? Was he more likely to take to the training grounds, ask after Mithrandir's counsel, or engage the company of the twins?  
  
"Valar! Where can he be? An elf is not capable of vanishing into the air, not even a silvan," he complained aloud, no closer to a decision than at the beginning of his rambling walk.  
  
"For what reason do you seek a silvan elf?" a voice wafted through the branches and drew the Noldo's gaze upward and to the right. There gazing down upon him, not more than two metres above, perched in apparent comfort and ease upon a sturdy limb was Legolas.  
  
"Ah! A start you gave me, Legolas!" Erestor said and added a light laugh. "I was searching for you, that is true."  
  
"What is it that you would ask of me?"  
  
"Nay, I have not come here to pose questions, Legolas, but to tender a humble apology, if you will accept it." Erestor bowed as he spoke, hoping his words would carry enough sincerity to coax the visitor from the heights. To his invidious glee, the archer leaped down at once and approached him with arm extended.  
  
"I am glad to do so," spoke Legolas as he gripped the advisor's forearm in the traditional warrior's grasp, wary but willing to listen.  
  
"That is better, then, and a weight is lifted from my heart for your generosity. It was wrong of me to ascribe to you hurts inflicted by another. Seeing you and Glorfindel together raised many unhappy memories."  
  
"I am sorry for your grief." It was more difficult to speak the polite response than Cuthenin would have liked.  
  
"Le hantëan. (I thank you.) I feel duty bound to warn you, Legolas, for you are new to these lands and have barely met the folk of Imladris. Not all is at it seems upon first glance."  
  
"Of what do you speak?"  
  
"Why, of the intrepid Balrog-Slayer, naturally. He wears an honourable bearing and it is clothed in a most attractive and agreeable form, as I am sure you would agree." Erestor smiled bitterly at the faint blush that stole over the silvan's ears at this remark, but he carried on, determined to spoil Glorfindel's plans. "Yet the heart within is inconstant."  
  
"Nay, I cannot believe this. Why would you make such a charge?" Legolas did not even realise how hotly he contested the advisor's words.  
  
"I am but reporting to you my own history," the advisor smoothly placated the riled Wood Elf. "If you would hear of it. My conscience will not allow me to stand by and observe the same fate befall another, making no attempt to avert the catastrophe of a broken spirit."  
  
"You presume much and take your own gossip for fact." Legolas moved away, unwilling to confirm the Noldo's insinuation.  
  
"Perhaps, yet you cannot deny it was his name you cried out in the night. Not everyone stays indoors through the twilit dusk and the oak grove is not so far from the path as to be out of hearing range."  
  
Legolas eyes and mouth gaped wide in disbelief and embarrassment. He had not considered that someone might overhear his exclamations of passionate longing and flushed in humiliation, imagining the scene. He could not find words to counter this and turned to leave, dreading that the anecdote would be spread amid the population. A hand upon his arm halted his retreat.  
  
"Nay, do not go," Erestor hid his sordid triumph to have guessed correctly, making his tone pleading and apologetic instead. "Your secret is safe in my keeping. I am here but to offer you the truth before you commit yourself fully. Sit beside me upon the grass and I will speak to you of Gondolin and my life there espoused to Glorfindel."  
  
Legolas searched the advisor's eyes diligently, sure there must be malice inherent in the invitation. His instinct warned not to trust the advisor. Yet he could not deny his morbid curiosity to know what had befallen the couple to part them and reduce the noble Lord to such spiteful vengeance. In a corner of his awareness, he believed that a kernel of truth must be within the Noldo's claim, for such deep anger oft substituted for unbearable anguish. Thus, Cuthenin did stay and remained with Erestor through the morning, absorbing the dolorous tale the statesman could not hold back.  
  
Indeed, so long were they sequestered amid the peaceful grove of trees that Galdor and Lindir ventured from the house to seek their respective friends, for the council was beginning and the two elves had not arrived. It was not without reason that their late entry together gave Glorfindel a deep sense of foreboding. He could say nothing, however, for the emissary from the Woodland Realm was seated by his Guardian, with Elrond and Erestor next, blocking the re-born warrior from conversing with him.  
  
The council proceeded; its affect upon everyone was profound and Legolas' prediction was borne forth. From no less than the lips of Aragorn, Elrond's own foster son, came his peoples' condemnation.  
  
 _'How came the folk of Thranduil to fail in their trust?'_ 1.  
  
The memory of the sentence stung as sharply as the initial hearing of it had done. Legolas had defended his realm as best he could but knew it was not sufficient to account for such a disaster. Even Gandalf's attempt to minimise the error could not remove it from anyone's thoughts, least of all his.  
  
At the council's conclusion Cuthenin was among the first to vacate the Last Homely House, eager to remove himself from chastising eyes and disapproving frowns that simultaneously failed to show surprise, as though such neglect of duty was no more than one should expect of Wood Elves.  
  
Legolas walked determinedly from the stately grounds, making for the talan and his weapons. He was angry, mortified, disgusted, and ashamed, all at once. He could hear Glorfindel following, calling for him to wait yet he did not, desiring no discourse with the Balrog-Slayer as yet. What he needed was a means to work off some of the negative energy the morning's events had promoted, and a deep meditation upon the majesty of Tawar would not be sufficient.  
  
 _I crave combat. I would go hunting Yrch, were I at home. First Erestor reveals his espousal to Glorfindel and then I must reveal the failure of the Greenwood. This atop the deaths upon my hands! All because I could not detain a simple gangrel creature in custody._  
  
He headed for the training grounds, brusquely pushing past the Vanya as he left the walled garden and ignoring the hail from Galdor as well.  They continued to follow and he listened as they bickered over him along the way.  
  
"Wait here; I will tend to him," commanded the Lord of the Tree.  
  
"I must speak with him, Galdor," insisted Glorfindel. "It was unwise to have his news told in such a forum before the rites of the dead could be accomplished. Let me tell him of your decision."  
  
"Nay, there is more amiss than this council's outcome. I am his Tirn'wador and will ease his agitated mood."  
  
"Aye, it is no wonder he is rattled; you saw him with Erestor."  
  
"Indeed, the advisor may have been filling in some of the background ahead of you. Let me explain it fully. Go and see to the organisation of the scouting parties for no doubt your Lord has need of your wisdom."  
  
"I will do so once I have satisfied my mind that Cuthenin bears me no ill will," countered Glorfindel stubbornly.  
  
At this Legolas stopped upon the path and turned back, striding to them swiftly where they had halted in surprise and some trepidation, so gloomy and fierce was his expression. But his eyes cleared when he looked upon Glorfindel's, for he found nothing of duplicity therein, only concern and regret.  
  
"Ai, Glorfindel, then go with a lighter heart. I hold nothing against you. Indeed, I am not the one you should hasten to set at ease. It is Erestor with whom you must square things."  
  
"Cuthenin, do not heed his venomous words, I beg you!" implored Glorfindel. "You know he is capable of falsehoods. He imagines far more than ever there was betwixt us. It all happened in my last life; am I never to be forgiven?"  
  
"Nay, it is not of Gondolin I speak. Erestor's ill-feeling is centred here in Imladris. He swears by the One that he saw you with another, intimately engaged."  
  
"I was never espoused to Erestor here. I have not promised myself to anyone since my return to Middle-earth. He imagines wrongs that were never committed and claims harm by me that his own heart invented."  
  
"Then you deny it?"  
  
Nay, there was another, that is true, yet I made no…"  
  
"It matters not!" Legolas spoke in impassioned frustration to hear such justification. "Erestor believes himself still espoused to you. He did not die nor feel the bond between you to be broken."  
  
"Peace, Legolas, allow Glorfindel to account for his actions," chided Galdor.  
  
"It is an unfair charge. When I perished, everything perished. I was reborn with a new heart that did not know him. I was remade with no binding ties to anyone." Glorfindel said, furious with Erestor for creating this rift before he barely even had the chance to befriend Cuthenin.  
  
In silence Legolas considered this, for it was not a thing that he would have imagined. If Erestor was aware of it then he was truly in the wrong to demand what was no longer his to claim. He could not justly accuse Glorfindel of betrayal if their union had never resumed its former course.  
  
"Did Erestor understand this?" he asked quietly and waited for a reply. Nothing did Glorfindel utter, merely standing with a dumbfounded expression covering his fair countenance. Legolas was aghast. "You never told him?"  
  
"I…he refused to…"  
  
"Love died in your heart even as your body was broken, yet you did not reveal this. Why? Can you wonder at his wrath to see you with someone else, to be rejected by the one he waited for as more than an Age passed? That is how he learned that he meant nothing to you any longer."  
  
The intensity of this speech was enough to steal the words from Glorfindel's lips, for he perceived that somehow he had hurt Cuthenin without ever intending such a thing. There was a desperation within the tones, as though the silvan warrior had just lost one of the few remaining tethers keeping him bound to Arda, and that frightened the Balrog-Slayer. He shifted stricken eyes to Galdor, imploring intervention, as Legolas turned away with an exclamation of disgust.  
  
"Legolas, there is more to this than Erestor has told. I ask that you refrain from judgement until Glorfindel's part is explained," cautioned Galdor, reaching out to grasp Legolas' arm and thus stall the warrior's escape. "I have spent the morn with Glorfindel, as I promised, and am satisfied. Long have I known him and I will vouch for his genuine intentions. His heart is not so cold as you think it. Come, recall your initial evaluation of his character and trust to the conclusion attained then. If you cannot, at least heed my counsel."  
  
For a moment it seemed as though Legolas would defy his new Guardian, so vexed was his expression, yet finally he drew a deep breath and bowed his head.  
  
"Sui pedich, Tirn'wador," (As you say, Guardian) he stated stiffly and gave a brief nod as his eyes met the re-born warrior's as well. "I will abide by the advice of my Guardian. Yet say no more to me of these matters until you have done so with Erestor."  
  
With that he resumed his course and Galdor accompanied him, leaving Glorfindel alone on the path.  
  
1\. Direct quote from the Fellowship of the Ring.  
  
TBC


	11. Unburdening by Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounded and sick at heart, Legolas arrives at Imladris as Thranduil's messenger on the eve of the Council of Elrond. He meets Glorfindel and the two form a unique bond. Through the rites of an ancient religion, Glorfindel becomes Legolas' Soul Keeper and saves him from certain fading due to grief. Love blossoms between the unlikely couple as the great events of the ring War are about to unfold. Features Legolas as Thranduil's love child rather than a legitimate heir.

**Cuthenin (True-Bow)  
by F.E.Morton**   
UnBeta'd  
  
Disclaimer: just borrowing, the characters and settings are Tolkien's, the words here are mine. No money earned.  
  
_thoughts_  
(elvish translations)  
Everything written between these two symbols: \|:|/ and /|:|\ happened earlier in the day. Hope that is not too confusing.  


* * *

**Min-ar-Paenui Peth: Úcaul Annaur (Part Eleven: Unburdening by Fire)**  
  
A more perfect example of autumn weather could not have been provided had Elrond commanded it through the power of Vilya. The light of Anor was rich in hues of gold and burgundy streaked across the pale blue western sky, dappling the ground beneath the grove of oaks in the dell behind Glorfindel's house. The bright daubs of gleam danced with the shadows cast as the breath of Manwë swayed the upper limbs of the ever-leaved hardwoods. The soft shirring of branch and twig complimented the solitary song of an Olive Warbler perched somewhere amid the needles of a fir high on the steep stony walls of the surrounding cliffs. The trilling song drifted through the briskly boreal air in regular intervals and it almost seemed the distant avian's lilting rhythm determined the timing of the other sounds within the sheltered glade.  
  
Low and muted, the crackle and hiss of a small, contained blaze, its flames peeking through the slots in the iron brazier as if to rival the sun, added its voice. The barely discernible rasp of a comb carding through long straight hair, the rustling shuffle of silk-clothed arms and shifting booted feet vied with the murmuring heat's noise. A louder clank as the grate was opened and several heavy objects were settled in the glowing amber coals disturbed the quiet mood and made Glorfindel startle. Involuntarily, his fingers gave the hair a sharp tug and this wrought a surprised though subdued mutter of disapproval from the kneeling figure to whom the tresses were attached.  
  
It was Legolas, of course, and he shot Glorfindel a disgruntled glare from under upswept flaxen lashes.  
  
"Nin gohennach," (Forgive me.) whispered the Vanya Lord contritely and untangled the knot his jerking motion had formed. He resumed the grooming more carefully, counting the number of passes the simple device made through the fluid locks, determined not to be distracted by the luxurious sensuality of the weighty strands spread across his palm.  
  
Legolas sighed and turned his eyes, since he could not move his head, to observe what Galdor was doing that had made such a disruption. The elder was slowly working a small bellows to supply the charry wood in the brazier with sufficient air to make them incandescent. His comforting brown gaze met Cuthenin's and he gave a nearly imperceptible nod as his lips formed the slim outline of a smile. Legolas returned the facial gesture and raised the goblet he held in his hands to his lips, drinking deeply.  
  
The mixture within was the same his Guardian had supplied on the previous day only stronger, the bitter aftertaste of the potent herbs more pungent upon the back of his tongue. He had not eaten at noon and the effects of the drug were quickly diffusing through his bloodstream and easing his anxiety. As before, Legolas was glad for it; thus far the day had challenged his emotional endurance to its limit and the ritual itself was said to be gruelling. While it seemed an Age might have passed since the disastrous council, the events had concluded mere hours ago. Now he knelt on the fallen leaves in the lengthening rays of the setting sun as Glorfindel prepared him for Úcaul Annaur.  
  
Wishing not to dwell too deeply on the activity to come, he recalled instead the history preceding it. _Verily, I fled down the path from everything the dawn had introduced._ He gave a slender snort of self-derision as the image filled his mind:  
  
  
\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/

"You will name him Faer Hebron?"  
  
"Glorfindel is willing and I have examined him scrupulously for any untoward intent. His spirit is genuine. You were not displeased with the idea yesterday."  
  
"Aye, but that was before I knew of his espousal. He is genuine, you say, yet he could not find the means to explain the severing of his bond to Erestor. His heart is not cold, you claim, yet he cared not for the pain of his first love. I cannot entrust my soul to him nor commit myself eternally to one so fickle. Faer Hebron, if not of my own blood, should be my intended; thus I have been taught. Is it not so among the other Gairdh o Tawar?" (Regions of Tawar)  
  
"It is. Do Greenwood's byr obey the counsel of their Tyrn'wedir and the rulings of their Sedryn?"  
  
Long and lanky Galdor had no trouble keeping up with the smaller Wood Elf as Legolas came as close to running along the byway as possible without actually doing so. Nevertheless, the elder was irritated with such an open display of defiance from his new ward and the sharpness of his tone pulled the archer to an abrupt halt.  
  
"I will heed your counsel in all matters, Tirn'wador." Legolas bowed his head gravely but his voice shook. Now he regretted giving over such an important role to someone he truly knew nothing about and who understood him even less. All of his anger drained away, replaced by the compounded shame such union would generate: linked to a male who was another ellon's mate.  
  
 _Ai! My father will disown me and my brothers will refuse to even speak my name._ His shoulders slumped and he did not bother to lift his sight from the ground.  
  
"How can I claim someone already bound?"  
  
The cadence of this query was simultaneously defeated and pleading and Galdor realised the messenger truly feared such a thing might be ordained.  
  
"Nay, Legolas, never would I force you into such an immoral joining." The noble Lord quickly gripped his charge by the shoulders and gave a short, brisk shake as if hoping the physical motion would jar loose such an offensive concept. "This espousal you mention truly was in another lifetime; it is no lie. You are young and mayhap it is not as clear to your eyes, but I can see there is no eternal connection betwixt Glorfindel and Erestor." He maintained a tight hold to prevent further retreat along the path.  
  
"Erestor does not agree. He says that Glorfindel holds his heart. What do you see in his eyes, Tirn'wador, for I saw only pain and anger."  
  
"Their relationship was not so holy and exalted an estate as he has led you to believe. In his defence, I believe Erestor truly does care for Glorfindel and cannot accept the truth. Whatever bond existed during their lives in Gondolin, it is vital no more. This is the doing of the Valar and the reasons for it I do not pretend to comprehend. For such answers you will need to permit Glorfindel to speak freely to you, without voicing recriminations and accusations."  
  
"Why can you not explain it to me? Tell me of their time together; you knew them then, did you not?"  
  
"Is it my place to spread gossip and hearsay? Is it right to speak half-truths and repeat words removed from the dialogue and events that inspired them? This is not my history we discuss but Glorfindel and Erestor's. I will not reveal what was told to me in confidence, even if Glorfindel is not the same elf now that spoke those secrets all those centuries ago.  
  
"I was quite serious regarding my apprenticeship to our Sadron then and that is why he came to me. Even more adamant am I now regarding my responsibilities, yet were I not bound by the oaths of a Sadron, still I would never betray the trust of a friend. Not even for you, Cuthenin. Do you understand this?" Galdor peered into the silvan's distraught face and shook him again for emphasis. "Do you understand this?" he repeated.  
  
"I understand," Legolas murmured and turned his eyes down to the path. He heard Galdor exhale a worried breath and felt the elder's strong grip leave his arms. Cuthenin shivered, missing the succour of that contact immediately.  
  
"You have already said you would hear Glorfindel's explanation if he complies with your request. I am sure he will finally confront this matter with Erestor and settle the issue, though it will not be easy nor pleasant to do so. He has many regrets, Legolas, not least of which is the distress this has caused you. When he returns, will you listen to him with an open heart?"  
  
"Aye, Tirn'wador." Legolas did not meet his Guardian's gaze for several minutes as he considered these words. He wished to believe there was a reasonable explanation, that he could understand it all and still look upon Glorfindel with the same respect as he had upon meeting him. Yet one notion nagged at his thoughts and threatened to rob him of hope. At last he raised his head to question the elder. "Would Erestor not know of it at once? If he was bound to Glorfindel, would he not sense the dissolution of that bond?"  
  
"Indeed, therein reside my own misgivings for the Chief Advisor's sincerity in his concern for your welfare."  
  
"How so?"  
  
"You are judging this in a very narrow way. In your mind, Erestor and Glorfindel must be still bound, and thus the Balrog Slayer has broken his vows. You believe this based on the premise that a true bond cannot be sundered, for thus the Valar revealed and our natural inclination substantiates. While that is correct there have been exceptions: Finwë and Miriel specifically. Open your thoughts. Has it not occurred to you that there are two possible answers to this dilemma?  
  
"Perhaps Erestor and Glorfindel were not bound equally, in which case the Valar would never sanction a continuation of such an arrangement should one party be unwilling. An unequal bond could be of many forms: a political union promoting alliance between powerful Houses or a joining in which one elf was enamoured physically but the soul was never touched, for example.  
  
"Alternately, Erestor was cognisant of the bond's failure and refuses to admit it, naming Glorfindel inconstant and seeking to punish him. He is deeply hurt, this much is clear to me, even if I cannot condone his manner of treating the injury to his spirit. Indeed, it may even be a mixture of these factors rather than distinctly one or the other that drives Erestor's actions. And Glorfindel's, for that matter."  
  
"Nae! This is a horrible mess. Why is it Glorfindel who has captured my interest, Tirn'wador? Mayhap my feelings are merely lustful desire, as you warned. If so, the result is the same. How can I entrust my soul to him?"  
  
"Fear not; if you truly cannot abide Glorfindel then I shall seek another for you, yet I must be blunt. The grieving sickness will only advance more rapidly as each hour passes. You are shivering again; the cold has returned. It is time to admit that this is not a result of the poison, long banished from your body. This is but a sign of the illness, as is your loss of hope and confidence. I know of no means to halt its course but one, for you are far from home and loved ones and the very elf you would first turn to is she whom you mourn most deeply."  
  
"Mayhap that is for the best, then." Legolas dropped his eyes from his Guardian's again and exhaled a shallow sough before attempting more speech. "If that is my fate it is futile to evade it."  
  
"Here is the proof of my fears already manifest before me. You would rather fade and join Calarlim than aid our cause in these dark days ahead?"  
  
Legolas made no answer to this. What use could he possibly serve when every effort he put forth resulted only in failure and loss of immortal life? _It seems I am less an advantage to the silvans than to the Shadow._ Yet he could not bear to say these words aloud and thus give them substance.  
  
"It is a difficult thing, trying to comprehend the nature of fate, and not likely to produce fruitful results."  
  
The gruff voice sounding this notion did not belong to either of the elves, and the two immortals turned to look behind them. So intense had been their discussion that neither had noticed the approach of the wizard. Merry and Pippin, the Ring-bearer's kinsmen, were with him and stared in undisguised fascination and concern at the First-born. They had been close enough to hear the last part of the conversation regarding grieving and eyed Legolas with sympathy.  
  
"Mithrandir," said Galdor quietly and waited for the Istar to continue.  
  
"Mellynen (my friends)," the Maia smiled his creased and wrinkled grin and turned to address Legolas directly. "I would ask for your help in this grave matter, warrior of the woods. Frodo and Sam cannot hope to succeed all alone, even if I accompany them."  
  
"You wish me to join the venture? Even after my failure in keeping Smeagol?" His tone plainly transmitted how unexpected was this request.  
  
"Have I not already said it is pointless to try and comprehend destiny? It is better to accept that those events were unavoidable and take up your part in this. Vairë is not known for changing her mind very easily and she seems to have chosen you. Elrond agrees with me as well. What does your Guardian say on the question?"  
  
"I had not thought on it, Mithrandir, as there are other issues to resolve first," Galdor frowned. Truthfully he felt it was wrong to add more weight to the archer's burdens but had no desire to speak openly of the dire nature of Legolas' suffering.  
  
"Then we shall leave you to attend them in the hope that you will soon turn your attention to my request," the wizard bowed formally and stepped past them, continuing on the way. "Come, good Hobbits, we are on a mission to find the Dwarf Lords!" he called behind him genially.  
  
Merry and Pippin each gave a hurried and awkward bow to the elves and skittered after their friend. They did not need to speak aloud their sadness over the Wood Elf's troubles, for each had awakened to the sounds of his haunting lament the previous night. Now this talk of fading sounded too much like dying for them to feel comfortable about it. Gandalf's belief that Legolas would join Frodo and Sam eased their worry for the Ring-bearer and pointed to hope for the Wood Elf, yet the elder elf seemed unlikely to approve it. Their grim expressions wordlessly communicated all these fears in seconds.  
  
On impulse, Pippin reversed his progress and went back to stand before Galdor and Legolas, eyes darting uncertainly between one set of dark brown irises and one of sapphire blue.  
  
"Pippin!" hissed Merry in a frantic whisper, watching his cousin with trepidation, terrified that he would offend the regal creatures with some inappropriate remark.  
  
"Please, Legolas," the Hobbit spoke and reached out to take the silvan's hand in a firm grip. "Do not fade. Frodo needs you; we all do." He gave the slender, elegant fingers a brief, reassuring squeeze before releasing them and racing to his cousin. Merry fixed him with a lopsided grin, shaking his head in wonderment, and clapped his friend on the shoulder to signify his approval. Together they hurried to catch up to Gandalf, leaving Cuthenin staring in amazement.  
  
Galdor smiled into his ward's bewildered eyes, reading the look of shamefaced guilt easily. It was obvious the Hobbit's plea had touched Legolas and forced him to think beyond his own feelings of sorrow and failure, longing and disgrace. The Lord of the Tree revised his earlier judgement; perhaps this quest was exactly the sort of burden Cuthenin required to draw him from his grief.  
  
"Legolas, it is time to decide this matter. Come and see the place I have chosen for Úcaul Annaur. Then you will listen to what Glorfindel has to say. If he cannot acquit himself to your satisfaction then I shall ask Elrond to suggest another to undertake the role of Faer Hebron." So saying he led Legolas away from the path and into the countryside, heading for the craggy cliffs and the perpetual fomentation of the falls, confident of his charge's obedient acquiescence.

/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\  
"Bind all of his hair tightly into a single braid."  
  
Galdor's instructions to Glorfindel called Legolas back from his meandering memories and he blinked, attempting to clear his vision which had suddenly become a whirling swirl of shapes and shadows. He swayed and dropped the cup, spilling its contents upon the ground, and instinctively grabbed onto the nearest solid object close at hand. This happened to be the Vanya warrior's thigh and he felt the muscle flinch under his pinching grip.  
  
"Nin gohennach," (Forgive me) he mumbled as he loosened his hold and tried to look up. Glorfindel's features swam in an alarmingly nauseating pattern and Legolas shut his eyes tight. "I am dizzy."  
  
"Ú-boe anim díhenad, Cuthenin," (There is no need for me to forgive, Cuthenin.) Glorfindel knelt beside the archer and supported him, finished the long plait and pocketed the comb. "What is in that tonic, Galdor?"  
  
"Only what is necessary. This is not all caused by the miruvor. Have him lower his head to his knees; it should pass momentarily," instructed the elder Lord as he came and stooped down beside them. "Be at peace, Legolas, it is normal to feel thusly."  
  
"It has begun?"  
  
"Aye, the first incantation is silent, for to hear it only compounds the stress to the body by introducing fear into the mind." Galdor lifted Legolas' chin and peered into his eyes. _Truly, Legolas almost has no need of a spell to loosen the spirit from the flesh, for his yearns to flee anyway._ Satisfied, he smiled to reassure his ward before addressing Glorfindel again. "You must not lose contact with him from henceforth until I tell you it is over, understood?"  
  
"Yes, Galdor, I will not leave his side," promised the Balrog Slayer, lightly rubbing the silvan's back.  
  
"Nay, I mean this literally. Recall the instruction I gave you this morning: you two need to be in physical contact for the duration of the ritual. You can ensure this by placing his hands upon you as well. Now, remove his tunic and shirt and yours also."  
  
As Glorfindel complied he watched the ancient Lord quietly arranging some objects on the small table. This had been carried down from the talan to serve during the ritual and held several jars of ointments or oils, some containers of a dry gritty substance in colours of green and ochre, a set of metal tongs, and a wooden handle of sorts. He shuddered, thinking on what had been explained of this rite after Galdor's mild interrogation into his character. While pleased to have convinced the Lord of the Tree of his worthiness to become Cuthenin's Faer Hebron, Glorfindel could not suppress an innate dread for what must be done in order to uphold that honour.  
  
It was dangerous and bordered on barbaric.  
  
Knowing this, he stripped off his upper garments carefully, alternating hands, keeping one set of fingers tightly clasped on Legolas' arm the while. He was even more cautious while disrobing the archer, settling Cuthenin back on on his heels and positioning one of the silvan's lax limbs across his shoulder. Once Legolas' chest was bared, Glorfindel noticed at once the changes in the spiralling tattoo and sought to meet the messenger's gaze. Cuthenin kept his eyes veiled, however, a faint blush tinting his high cheeks, and Glorfindel realised this was due to the proximity of their naked flesh. Though Legolas had seen him completely unclothed in the pools, he had not touched the Vanya.  
  
 _Most likely has not touched anyone else, either_.  
  
He smiled faintly over Cuthenin's shyness and the innocence it represented, giving the younger elf's shoulder a comforting clasp. He switched his attention to the glowing embers, now so hot that the brazier spilled a bright orange glow over their exposed skin. Glorfindel let his vision travel the bounds of the shallow dell, following the intricate circle which Galdor had sketched over the dirt in a fine white powder. Even as he watched, the elder moved toward this artfully crafted boundary and extended his hands over the design.  
  
"Gleino mín nedhechor od edraith. Minna erui mellyn vi gwend a sîdh." (Enclose us within a circle of safety. None may enter save those who do so in friendship and peace.) The noble Sadron spoke clearly and the words rang with a compelling tone of command.  
  
A spark flew from his fingers and fell upon the spiral, igniting it, and it was only then that Glorfindel realised he held a flint stone. No flames erupted from the burning powder, however, and little smoke, but a clear blue gleam as of captured moonlight arose from the ground and etched the protective talisman upon the molecules of the very air. The cool pale light mingled with the vibrant vermilion glare pouring from the grate.  
  
"Calarlim!" Legolas moaned pitifully, clutching his head in his hands, and would have collapsed upon the ground in a heap had Glorfindel not been holding fast. "Addheli enni, saes!" (Return to me, please!)  
  
Glorfindel gathered him close and looked to Galdor in alarm, but the elder only stood still, eyes half-lidded and hands folded as if lost in thought. The re-born elda wondered how long this phase of the proceedings would last, for Legolas did not seem to be improving, breathing with difficulty and clutching his temples as if his head must pain him severely.  
  
Beside the table, Galdor began chanting in a slow, mesmerising rhythm but his volume was too soft for the words to carry. The Vanya warrior felt Legolas inhale deeply and then a tremor worked through him. Under the Balrog Slayer's hands, the pounding of the silvan's heart increased two-fold.  
  
It took all Glorfindel's resolve to remain calm, for though Galdor had described every detail of the ritual and what various effects these might produce upon Legolas, it was quite different to witness these things. It was too much like illness, too close to the responses of a failing body for Glorfindel to bear it easily. _Shall I always be on the cusp of loosing him just when it seems I have won him?_ The noble warrior no longer wondered over the urgency of his feelings and the strength of his desire to prevent their permanent separation.  
  
How close circumstances had come to that made his stomach churn. Even now, with Cuthenin clasped in his arms, it was difficult to banish the sinking desolation that had filled his soul the moment he believed the woodland warrior was lost to him forever. Glorfindel thought back to Legolas' ultimatum and smiled grimly, for that demand had forced his encounter with Erestor to resolve the contention. The anger in the memory contrarily stirred him to sorrow as the scene unfolded within his thoughts:  
  
\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/\|:|/

Glorfindel stared at Legolas' departing form in disbelief. This mere stripling, this untested youth would instruct him on how to conduct his affairs? He scoffed one instant and the next felt his heart freeze in terror, imagining that rapidly diminishing figure never willing to reverse direction and return to him. With anxious haste he mimicked the messenger, wheeling about and hurrying toward the Last Homely House, desperate to repair the unexpected rift.  
  
Yet he should have anticipated something of the sort, should have made certain to prepare Cuthenin for the Chief Advisor's false words and specious sympathy. It was no one's fault but his own and only his actions could prevent permanent estrangement from the Wood Elf. And while Glorfindel could not command Erestor's participation in rectifying the volatile situation, he did not quail from forcing the confrontation if need be.  
  
In fact he was not far from absolute enragement for the complications his former mate had introduced into the first stirrings of affection and desire between himself and the Wood Elf. The Balrog Slayer was ready to throttle the deceiving throat that had so smoothly and deliberately supplied misinformation to Cuthenin. Yet there was a small corner of Glorfindel's soul that did fear to address the break openly, for his conscience could not be silenced.  
  
Erestor was not in his rooftop apartment where Glorfindel expected to find him. When no answer came to his knock at the door, the reborn warrior did not hesitate to enter in unbidden. He called for the advisor as he moved from room to room, noting the familiar disarray in the office, the discarded clothing and unmade bed in the sleeping chamber. With a scowl Glorfindel stalked into the observatory and clambered up the narrow steps to the roof, for while the dome was open the largest telescope was still within, its platform flush against the floor of the room. Once upon the circular walkway, he spied a smaller scope set upon a tripod facing east over the valley, a small stool positioned before it.  
  
Glorfindel's brow wrinkled in quandary, for the sighting tool was not aimed up into the heavens as one would expect. He could not deny his inquisitive nature and bent to set his eye to the device. A sharp intake of breath accompanied his shocked surprise and he straightened up, crimson in consternation. The talan in the oak grove was the visual target and there upon the visiting messenger's bed reposed Erestor. With a curse Glorfindel realised the implications and hastened to confront the advisor. It did not take him long to reach the garden and ascend to the flet.  
  
"Welcome, Glorfindel, I have been awaiting your arrival. I suspected you would find your way here in search of your young lover," drawled Erestor, supine on the plush mattress in absolute ease and comfort, wearing not a shred of covering over his appealing masculine form.  
  
"Erestor, this behaviour is inexcusable! You have been spying upon Legolas; do you deny it?"  
  
"What makes you say so, Glorfindel? Have you invaded my rooms without permission?" Erestor stretched languidly and caressed his abdomen, sliding his fingers lower to fondle his penis, already filling and rising to his touch.  
  
"Do not try to shift attention from your errors," hissed Glorfindel, refusing to allow his eyes to linger on the growing erection. "Cover yourself, for what will transpire here has nothing to do with pleasure," he snarled and snatched up the advisor's tunic from the floor, throwing it upon him.  
  
"Ah, I doubt you would be so eager to clothe your Cuthenin," sneered Erestor and tossed the garment aside. "But I am not jealous; I can understand the allure of being his first. I care not if you want him; pierce him and get it over with for the thrill will vanish once you have spilled within him. What can the two of you share beyond such base lust? You belong to different worlds and his is barely civilised. That silvan child cannot give you what you truly crave. Join me and I will refresh your memory of how well suited we are to one another's needs."  
  
"Do not involve him in this, Erestor." Glorfindel glared in fury but could not quite manage to keep his gaze on Erestor's face.  
  
"I am not the one who brought him into it," chortled the advisor. He shifted his hips and flexed his penis, undressing Glorfindel with his sultry gaze as he did so.  
  
"Enough!" Glorfindel turned his back to avoid ogling the arousing vision on the bed and took a deep breath, swallowing as he concentrated to slow his heart and reign in his libido. "This has nothing to do with Legolas and I am not here to justify my feelings for him. Cuthenin does not deserve to be punished by you for wrongs you believe I have committed. I am here to demand an accounting at last."  
  
"Indeed? How dare you make such a statement when I am the one who was wronged? Speak no more lies; it is your worry over that Wood Elf's disposition that has brought you here. Admit it, Glorfindel, you are angry because I told him the truth and now you have lost your virgin warrior."  
  
"You uttered nothing but innuendo and deliberately poisoned his thoughts against me!" Glorfindel turned and shouted back. His eyes travelled over the recumbent elf and rested on the fist encircling the dark maroon cock, pumping in a slow, seductive rhythm. "Valar! I will not be diverted! Dress yourself, Erestor, for I will settle this with you at last."  
  
"Aye, diverted; that is what has happened to us. Do you not see?" Erestor's voice softened and he stood from the bed, sidling up against Glorfindel and wrapping his arms around the warrior. With a groan the advisor pressed his hot and heavy shaft against Glorfindel's groin, thrusting against the growing protrusion trapped beneath the Vanya's leather leggings. "Do you deny that you want this, love? That is surely a lie."  
  
"Nay, Erestor, I do not," Glorfindel managed to stutter out but for an answer he found the Noldo's lips devouring his, demanding entrance. In spite of himself Glorfindel moaned and began to kiss back, eagerly caressing Erestor's limber tongue with his own, locking his arms around the naked body, leaning into Erestor's supple heat. They broke to breath and Glorfindel stared into the brightly burning triumphant gleam in the predatory onyx eyes. Smug, assured laughter met his ears as Erestor stepped back, tugging him toward the bed.  
  
"This is as it should be, Glorfindel. You belong to me and no other. Return to me and you will find that all is forgiven. Put aside your yearning for the bastard child of the woodland King, for he is beneath you." Before Glorfindel could reply Erestor sealed their mouths together anew and pulled the Vanya down with him upon the mattress, sliding his leg between Glorfindel's thighs and gently massaging the restrained erection with his knee.  
  
Glorfindel gasped and arched into the contact, his fingers moving to untie the leggings as Erestor's worked upon his tunic and shirt. He shifted on the bed, pressing back into the cushions in order to lift his hips and allow for the garment to be drawn off, and that is when the smoky scent reached his awareness. The faintly lingering aroma of semen arose from the bedding and he knew at once it was not Erestor's. He inhaled deeply, shutting his eyes to savour the heady musk of the youthful silvan's release, for surely this was his essence and no other's. Glorfindel's desire surged as he imagined Legolas in orgasm.  
  
A hand slid inside his leggings and explored, grasping onto his rigid length and yanking it free of confinement. He shuddered in the exquisite combination of pleasure and pain. A throaty laugh sounded in his ear as Erestor's tongue tasted its sensitive tip and he failed to repress an ecstatic cry of longing.  
  
"Your little silvan virgin could never make you emit those sounds. He has no idea how to please you."  
  
The words were packed with derisive disgust and penetrated the haze of lust clouding Glorfindel's thoughts. With a jolt he opened his eyes, realising where he was and what he was doing. In desolate shame he cried out and shoved Erestor away. He could not believe he had nearly allowed himself to lie with Erestor in Cuthenin's bed.  
  
"Valar, how can you plan such cruelty?" Glorfindel sat up and stared at Erestor. "You would hurt him thus? Why?"  
  
"What are you talking about? What is the matter now? No one is to be hurt any longer, all is as it should be again," crooned Erestor, trying to draw him back into his arms.  
  
"Nay! You would have us couple here, leaving the evidence in his own bed so that Legolas would know of it. That is…I cannot fathom what sort of mind conceives such a foul scheme." Glorfindel shoved off Erestor's groping hands and rose, hastily retying his garments. "You are exactly as you were in Gondolin, Erestor, nothing has changed and that deep streak of darkness in your soul shall not touch Legolas. I will not permit it."  
  
"Ah Glorfindel, you never objected to my possessiveness back then. If I recall you found it flattering. Besides, this is no less than you did to me yet to my pain you remain indifferent. Set aside your squeamishness; it is better for the elfling to be educated on how it would be between you. He is not ready to take a mate, especially not mine. Let Galdor do his job and find the child a more suitable companion. Perhaps Rumil of Lorien, being of similar station, will be interested. Come back to bed, love."  
  
"Get dressed, Erestor, for I will not do this," Glorfindel announced firmly and moved to take a seat at the small table, keeping his back to the naked elf with whom he had shared his first life.  
  
Several minutes of heavy silence settled over the oak grove as Erestor waited and Glorfindel defied him.  
  
"Very well, I will humour you for now. Mayhap before our discussion ends you will regret that decision." And Erestor laughed, a falsely cheery sound, a cracked and broken attempt to transmit dismissive unconcern that made Glorfindel cringe.  
  
"So you would choose a fleeting infatuation with youthful beauty over the enduring commitment of soul-mates? I admit I thought it would be so and yet I had to offer you a chance to redeem yourself." Erestor dressed as he spoke and then joined Glorfindel at the table, propping his chin on his hands as he gazed into the icy indigo eyes. "I did spy on Cuthenin, you are right. Ah, he is magnificent in the grip of his passions, Glorfindel, and when he came I spilled all over one of my favourite scopes in response. Yet I doubt you will ever observe such a sight, for he will not be open to your plans to debauch him now."  
  
"There are no such plans, Erestor. Why have you done this to Legolas? He is innocent. Can you truly think that harming him will cause me to find you desirable?"  
  
"Nay, I quite comprehend your rejection of my love; it has been made plain," Erestor snapped and stood angrily. "You do not deserve to have another mate, Glorfindel, for you did not appreciate your first. I felt it was my duty to inform Legolas before he fell victim to the same lies you spoke to me."  
  
"I never spoke lies to you. You are the one who misused our bond, Erestor, all those years ago. A lifetime ago for my part and still you try to manipulate me," spoke Glorfindel coldly, standing in order to meet his former mate eye-to-eye.  
  
"Do not expect me to accept such ridiculous fallacies; I was there. Or has your memory been altered by your own guilt? Let me reacquaint you with the details then." Erestor's voice was low and dark, filled with the pain that had distorted his love and made his own heart into nothing more than a festering wound. He smirked in satisfaction as Glorfindel took a step back in shock at the sound of these words.  
  
"I chose you, Glorfindel, from all the elves in Middle-earth, I selected you to receive my heart and soul. As I remember it, you were once overjoyed to have this honour. You were nothing then, a minor adherent to your House. How the histories have exalted you! Yet you and I, we know the truth. You were no Lord of the Golden Flower in those days. I am the one who advanced your career and raised your station. You were only a Lord because you were wed to a Lord."  
  
"And never would you let me forget it!" retorted Glorfindel, his own anguish over this ancient affliction resurfacing. "Not a day passed that you failed to remind me of the difference in our status, Erestor. I had to grovel to earn your attentions! I had to beg for you to gift me with your touch; do you remember any of that?"  
  
"You did not complain about it, Glorfindel, so do not play the suffering martyr to me!"  
  
"I did not object for I feared to loose you. I was very much younger than you and it is true; I was insignificant in comparison to others you might have selected. I was flattered that you wanted me and overwhelmed when you stated your intent for us to be bound as one. I could not refuse."  
  
"What do you mean by that? Of course you could have refused me! Will you tell me now you felt no love for me, even then?"  
  
"I did not understand these things; you were my first and I knew not the nature of love. I found you pleasing and the match was advantageous, but what I felt was not the kind of love that binds two souls together eternally," Glorfindel's voice shook with remorse, for this was what he had dared never reveal before, though he had realised it soon after the formal ceremony of binding to the noble Noldo Lord all those long Ages ago.  
  
Erestor stood silent, glaring in bitter denial and outraged anger at this admission. These were not the words he would hear. He drew himself up in rigid indignation. "I will not allow you to denigrate our union thus. You gave yourself to me and that is not something you can change. I will not see you initiate formal espousal with that Wood Elf; bad enough it was to witness your flagrant abuse of our sacred estate by bringing Rumil to your bed."  
  
"I am not yours, Erestor. Our bond was not true. I was young and foolish in Gondolin, captivated by a beautiful and powerful Lord's interest, infatuated by the prestige of such a match, eager to gain in esteem and rank amid Turgon's court. What feeling there was to link us died with my body in Beleriand. The heart I have now knows you not and you cannot claim it. I will give it to whomever I wish."  
  
"You are cruel, Glorfindel! How can you speak such cold words? If what you say is so, why did you resume your life with me upon arriving here in Imladris? If you felt nothing, why invite me back into your bed?"  
  
"It was not I who did the tempting, Erestor, and you are well aware of it! You are the one who began to pursue me the very minute I crossed the Bruinen!"  
  
"You did not resist! How can you maintain this farce? It cannot be both ways, Glorfindel, I will not have it! We are bound and I will forgive your weakness in succumbing to Rumil's beauty if you ask it of me. We will start anew and this enmity will be only a memory, but you must not take that Wood Elf for your own; I forbid it. I will not be shunned in favour of some rustic King's bastard, regardless his comely form, no matter if it is for only one night."  
  
There was a brief silence as the pair stared at one another, Erestor's anguished hope plain upon his aristocratic features as was Glorfindel's shocked dismay to see it. At last the Vanya sighed and dropped his head, unable to look at his former mate any longer, unable to deny his part in the dissension between them.  
  
"Is that what you have been waiting for all these many years since Rumil returned to Lorien?" he asked quietly and shook his head. "For me to come begging your mercy?"  
  
"Nay, not for your apology, Glorfindel, but for you. I am your mated spouse, no other can so claim. I love you and so shall I always. Will you still deny our union?" Erestor pleaded.  
  
"Nae! (Alas!) Nothing else can I do for I do not feel the same. It is my fault; Cuthenin is right. I should not have permitted myself to indulge in my lust upon arriving here. That is all it was for me; memories of the pleasure we found in one another's bodies. I should have told you this, but I delighted in having you chase after me and thought it my due for the way you abused me in Gondolin.  
  
"I did know in my heart that you believed we were still soul-mates and the thought pleased me, for in payment of the long years of debasement you had subjected me to I hoped to make you the fool. It was not until you confronted me over Rumil that I realised how deep was the injury that dalliance inflicted. That much I swear to you."  
  
Erestor gaped in stricken disbelief to hear this response and found the need to lower his body back onto the chair. He shook his head and then buried his face in his hands, leaning his elbows upon the small table, desperately trying to contain his rising sorrow and despair. It was humiliating and he could not face this a second time. Oh, he had known even in Gondolin that Glorfindel's feelings were less engaged than his own, but he would have the Vanya warrior and no other. Yet it had rankled, the fact that his mate had accepted him as nothing more than a means to satisfy carnal cravings, further a career, elevate his social status.  
  
"That is why I would make you beg and degrade yourself before me," he mumbled through his hands. He heard Glorfindel's surprised inhalation and continued. "I understood that you did not return my feelings, but I could not bear the mortification it would cause me to set you free. Then everyone would have known and I would be pitied by my peers.  
  
"When you died, I took that as my punishment and decided to wait for your return. I was determined it would be different between us, that I would win your love and respect by showing you the same. Thus I courted you so diligently, thus I submitted myself to you when finally you acceded. I believed you wished to rebuild our life together also, to allow the love we should have always shared to grow at last. Until I saw you with Rumil."  
  
"Ai, Erestor. There is nothing shared between us but bitter regret." Glorfindel gave a sour sigh. "And you are right, I have done nothing to merit a soul so true as Legolas possesses."  
  
Erestor's spine stiffened on hearing his rival's name yet he made no reply.  
  
Long they stared in silence upon one another, all the worst elements of their inner souls revealed at last, all the ancient hurts uncovered, all the vengeful plotting disclosed. A more thorough disgrace to the true estate of bonding than their interactions would be difficult to find, for they had used one another so spitefully and selfishly that the concept of love could never be bent to fit the convoluted contours of their twisted relationship. There was nothing to salvage from these revelations and the air grew cold and still between them despite the warmth of the autumn afternoon. At last Erestor stood up.  
  
"You have not asked me to forgive you," he began proudly.  
  
"I have not heard your request for absolution either," retorted Glorfindel.  
  
"Sîdh (Peace) I will finish ere you object," Erestor raised his hand to silence the interruption, a sharp stab of agony piercing his soul to hear the animosity in Glorfindel's voice. "I free you from our bond, Glorfindel, and I will bear you no more ill-will."  
  
"I suppose you expect me to thank you?" Glorfindel growled. "Yet you show no remorse for the harm your hateful jealousy inflicted upon an innocent."  
  
"Concern yourself with your own remorse over that; it was you who failed to be frank with the Wood Elf regarding our relationship." Erestor finished his sentence in stern tones with his imperious gaze locked on the volatile warrior's.  
  
Another lengthy pause ensued, for Glorfindel was ashamed that this was true. At the pools, he could have elaborated on the depth of the history he and Erestor shared but had chosen to make light of it instead. He sighed.  
  
"You have not asked, but I grant you forgiveness and in turn accept yours with humble gratitude. It seems we shall both suffer our heart's desire to go unrequited, and I do not doubt this is Námo's intent: that I experience the same pain that you have borne so long. Cuthenin is disgusted with me now and I am sure he will never consider my suit, nor will Galdor encourage him to do so.  
  
"And because of this he may be lost to grief, for the ritual needed requires someone in whom resides his utmost trust. Fate placed me in his path and I failed him. His death would be a grave sin we would both find hard to bear, should such an untimely end claim him. I know not how I will endure such an outcome."  
  
"You truly feel for him," Erestor gave a small rueful smile as he spoke. "Fear not; he will give you a second chance. You will have to prove yourself, no doubt, but he will not deny you the attempt."  
  
"Ah, I would like to believe that but you did not see the pain in his eyes."  
  
"I did see and gloated over it, to my shame. I must go beseech his forgiveness as well." This said, Erestor found he could not bear to be near Glorfindel any longer and quickly descended from the flet. He had no wish for his former love to witness his tears over this final break as he began to grieve in earnest for the emptiness in his soul.

/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\/|:|\  
  
"Buiam Tawar." (We serve Tawar.)  
  
"Tawar min beria." (Tawar protects us.)  
  
Sadron and byr gave the traditional acknowledgement of Pad-en-Tawar and thus the ritual of Úcaul Annaur was advanced.  
  
"Nuin Ist-en-Eru men túliel sí, breitham o haim men naegra, ristam na falch imgûr a cuil. Iluvatar, lasta nallad o hên lín, Legolas." (Under the knowledge of Eru we have come here, broken from those we mourn, severed by the chasm between death and life. Iluvatar, hear the plea of your child, Legolas.) Galdor spoke this prayer plainly, his chanting done, and waited for Legolas to respond.  
  
The Wood Elf was steadier, for the initial disorientation had dwindled away, replaced by the steadfast determination so integral to his character. Still and straight-backed, he knelt upon the ground in the centre of the glowing circle facing Glorfindel. Arm's length apart, they leaned against one another, forehead touching forehead, each one's hands secured firmly upon the shoulders of the other.  
  
Legolas long single braid lay draped over his right shoulder, rising and falling with every breath he took. Upon hearing his Sadron's supplication, his bowed head rose and his bright beryl eyes locked with those of the re-born elf. Within them he found admiration and respect, encouragement and reassurance. Legolas took a calming breath and gave a slight nod.  
  
"Iluvatar, aniron athrabeth ah gwaidyren dannen ar Nanthen min lû vedui. Anna dâf lín; boe tî gohennad pain úgerth coren dan tî. Aniron gohennad ah avegliriannen vi dôr gwanner." (Iluvatar, I wish for converse with my fallen comrades and my mother one last time. Give your permission; they must forgive all wrongs I have made against them. I would plead forgiveness for failing to honour their passing in the place where they gave up their lives.) He stated the purpose for the ritual. "Alae, si hebithon Taith-en-Rîn an Uir." (Behold, I shall keep the Marks of Remembrance for Eternity.)  
  
"Their hroar a feär (bodies and souls) are sundered, how shall this communion be achieved?" demanded Galdor.  
  
"Let me be the vessel for the spirits of the deceased. Let them come, would they have it so, and relieve me of my debt. Forever will I proclaim my gratitude for this mercy, until my body is spent." Legolas replied as a shiver ran over his spine.  
  
"What is to become of your feä whilst you serve this need? Who will safeguard your spirit until these debts are forgiven?" Sadron demanded.  
  
"I will keep his soul safe," Glorfindel spoke the correct response quietly, chilled as the reality of the situation filled his thoughts.  
  
No sooner had he answered than he felt a peculiar shifting inside his body, centred near his heart, and gasped as a warm presence filled him and a hazy golden gleam surrounded them both. His grip upon Cuthenin tightened in concern, for the silvan's head dropped back heavily, exposing his ivory neck to the sky, while his body grew limp in the Vanya's hands. Glorfindel's breath caught in his throat as he recognised and welcomed the silvan's soul alongside his, awed by Legolas' unfailing faith and the genuine joy transmitted through the vital connection.  
  
"Faer Hebron indeed! He would not even wait for the final declaration, so comfortable is his essence within yours." Galdor murmured softly as he knelt and gently lifted the lolling golden head, easing Legolas forward to rest against Glorfindel's chest. He smiled in approval as one of the elder warrior's arms encircled the archer's waist and drew him closer and the other supported Cuthenin's neck. "Let us make it official nonetheless. Are you willing to bear the mark of this commitment?" he asked of Glorfindel.  
  
If he found Galdor's insertion of such casual remarks within the solemn ceremony surprising, Glorfindel kept that to himself. "Proudly shall I do so, forever until my body is spent." The Balrog Slayer could not help adding his personal emphasis to the traditional reply. He boldly raised his eyes to the ancient Lord's and endured the intimidating glower the Sadron saw fit to project.  
  
"Nasan." (So be it.) Galdor stated at last.  
  
He returned to the table and lifted the tongs, opening the grate as he did so. From the smouldering coals he drew out a small ingot, brilliant in the glow of red heat peeling from it. This he set upon the table and at once the sharp scent of scorched wood arose within the dell. Quickly Galdor took up the wooden handle and slipped its slotted end over the vividly incandescent object, fitting a locking ring around it to hold the metal seal fast. That done, he dipped the exposed iron into the grainy ochre powder and then hastened to the kneeling elves.  
  
Swiftly the ancient Sadron's fingers pressed against Legolas' left side, counting down to locate the third rib beneath the heart. Without further warning than this he pressed the red-hot iron briefly against the warrior's bare skin.  
  
"Nay!" Glorfindel could not suppress his cry of dismay even though the brand was lifted in mere seconds, for Cuthenin's body had gone rigid in his arms as a low moan escaped him. The sickening odour of burning skin dissipated rapidly but was no less shocking for it. He exhaled a great rush of air as Legolas went slack again. Then Glorfindel gasped anew, for he felt the archer's spirit stir within him, seeking to comfort him through the stressful experience, as if he had been the one to receive the wound.  
  
Galdor set the tool aside on the table and returned with one of the small jars of ointment, spreading the cooling salve over the small, circular burn. Legolas' skin proclaimed Glorfindel his Faer Hebron, for the brand was nothing less than the insignia of the Vanya's name and rank within the House of the Golden Flower.  
  
With insufficient time to have a proper brand made, Galdor had imporvised, appropriating Glorfindel's stamp for marking his correspondence and imprinting the wax used to seal his letters. The ancient elder met Glorfindel's eyes gravely ere he approached the table and once more lifted the tongs. Extracting a different iron from the grate, he repeated the gruesome procedure, branding the Balrog Slayer in the same place but with the seal of Legolas' name and House.  
  
Glorfindel hissed against the searing burn but said nothing, leaning his cheek upon Cuthenin's head, relaxing as the heat of the brand ebbed during Galdor's application of the ointment. The pain was intense and he was relieved the ordeal was over, wondering what the mark would look like when it healed. Still he dreaded the rest of the ceremony, for there were three more glowing ingots within the fire and all of those would be applied to Legolas' body.  
  
He had learned from Galdor that these small iron icons were carried everywhere by initiates of Pad-en-Tawar, just in case some such catastrophe occured. Each warrior possessed three of these markers: one he carried in a pouch attached to his tunic, the others would be entrusted to two comrades. In the event that one among the company was lost and no fitting burial could be achieved, the elf carrying the fallen one's seal branded himself with it, offering the lost soul a place to reside until family could be notified and the Pennas Lunnen completed.  
  
In a small company such as Legolas had led across the Hithaeglir, each of the four warriors had exchanged tokens with the other three. As the sole survivor, it was Cuthenin's responsibility to ensure the souls of the departed were not adrift amid the turmoil of the living. The brands on his body would be as a beacon, guiding the unhoused feär home to their loved ones.  
  
Glorfindel shuddered involuntarily, for Úcaul Annaur was something more. In this ritual, the supplicant willingly removed his soul and opened his body for possession, accepting responsibility for the other's death and asking the deceased for expiation. The drifting soul would be commanded to speak through the borrowed flesh of the supplicant, either granting forgiveness or stating plainly how to remedy any grievance named. This done, the spirit exited and the brand was burned onto the penitant's body as a sign of their eternal accord.  
  
Galdor had admitted that sometimes the loose soul sought to permanently displace the person making this sacrifice, for the confusion and disorientation of sundering violently was severe and accompanied by anger and fear. This was what Legolas must face, three times over. At once the Vanya felt again the definite presence of Cuthenin's feä, much stronger than before, seeking to convey reassurance and confidence. Abruptly the sensation resolved into the archer's concrete thoughts:  
  
 _'Worry no more. The pain is nothing gauged against the peace I will earn through it, insignificant compared to the honour of bearing their marks in return. They are my friends and will not harm me.'_  
  
Glorfindel was not even really aware of the soft smile that spread across his features or the gentle kiss he placed upon the archer's temple.  
  
Galdor noticed, however, and was glad for it. His concern over Glorfindel's part in this ritual had all but vanished. Úcaul Annaur was rarely conducted, for it was not a trivial undertaking and the danger of unwholesome invasion of the supplicant's vulnerable body, breathing and functional yet all but bereft of its spirit, was very real.  
  
He did not fear that Legolas' comrades would seek to retain possession of his body, but there were other unseen entities at large. Stories of such roving demons were not just myths and the elder suspected the fragmented bits of life infused into Orcs were of this nature. Only the most extreme circumstances required such a serious risk and Galdor had performed Úcaul Annaur only twice in all his long years of life. He was comforted that in this instance their location was doubly protected by the Peredhel Lord's ring of power and the circle of enchantment wrought through the will of Tawar.  
  
 _Even so, three souls must be invited here and that leaves Legolas virtually defenceless for longer than I would like._  
  
"Cenin Hatholvaen, Athedrynen o Gladgalen, mellon o Cuthenin. Tolo si, caro lín iest lim. Anno sîdh a Legolas ar hebo îdh uireb." (I call Clever-Blade, messenger of Greenwood and friend of True-bow. Come now, make your wish clear. Give peace to Legolas and keep eternal rest.) Galdor lifted his voice into the silent air, eager to conclude the rite.  
  
Minutes passed; all remained still. Legolas did not stir in Glorfindel's arms.  
  
Galdor called out again the same words, pacing a circuit within the protected ring of glowing light. No answer came that he could detect and thus a third time he issued the command. More seconds lagged past and the elder frowned, preparing to utter the call again.  
  
Then a slight gust breezed into the glade and swirled a curtain of dry leaves around Legolas and Glorfindel briefly before dying down. The silvan moaned and shifted in the Balrog Slayer's arms, straightening up and raising his head to peer into the Vanya's eyes. A decidedly irreverent and puckish grin spread over his features, an expression the archer was not wont to make but one that was a trademark for the deceased warrior whom Galdor had summoned.  
  
Glorfindel's eyes widened, for he was staring into a face transformed. This was not the youthful untried messenger but a seasoned warrior much acquainted with life and all its mysteries, even now the greatest one as far as the First-born were concerned. Here was an elf who had lived fully and relished it, and the eyes gazing into his were no longer clear blue as they should be but instead were deep brown, sagacious, and held no innocence. A mocking laugh erupted from Legolas' body.  
  
"Ah, it is strange to be in such a form. Mae govannen, Glorfindel of Gondolin. Suilad Galdor of Mithlond. I am here at your bidding; say what you will," spoke Legolas' voice in tones and pitch that were not his own.  
  
"Ai Valar, I know you now," exclaimed Glorfindel. "Although I think you were called Gîlfuir (North Star) when we met in Lorien. You were among Legolas' guard on his journey here?"  
  
"Nay, Gîlfuir is my brother, but he shall be called hither next, I think, for we were both assigned this task. I promised Inarthan we would look after Cuthenin, for he was against sending his little brother hence."  
  
Then Glorfindel startled, for in his mind he could hear Legolas' thoughts clamouring for expression, all jumbled and urgent but he gathered their meaning nonetheless.  
  
"Legolas begs forgiveness for leaving you behind and wishes to…"  
  
"Say no more," the unhoused spirit in possession of the Wood Elf's body interrupted. "Be at peace, Cuthenin. It was my honour to accompany you and no less than my duty to defend your mission, for it is vital to all of Middle-earth, as I see it now."  
  
"Go then, seek respite in Mandos, Hatholvaen. I pray we will meet again in the Blessed Realm," Galdor said firmly, his eyes dark and commanding when they met the errant soul peering at the world through Legolas' transmuted orbs.  
  
Hatholvaen gave the elder an insolent shrug and an irreverent smirk, winked at Glorfindel in a manner that suggested inhabiting Legolas' body had granted him more information than the young silvan might appreciate, and finally obeyed.  
  
Legolas blinked twice and focused his blue irises on Glorfindel's for an instant before the disturbingly empty spheres rolled back in his head. With a loud exhale Cuthenin fell limp in his Faer Hebron's embrace and Glorfindel gathered him close, settling the drooping head upon his shoulder and retrieving an arm that had dropped from its secure position around his neck. No sooner had he stabilised the Wood Elf than Galdor was beside them, bearing the brand, and a second burn was etched into Cuthenin's side: the seal of Hatholvaen's name and House. Legolas only twitched this time yet Glorfindel could feel his heart racing under his ribs.  
  
"It is over," he whispered against the archer's ear and his heart was inundated with the answering warmth of the fair soul he harboured.  
  
Just as the spirit of Hatholvaen predicted, his brother Gîlfuir was called forth in the same manner. His demeanour was similar to his brother's with perhaps less arrogance and more compassion for the suffering that warranted such a severe remedy. Gîlfuir arrived at the first summons and granted Legolas absolution and his blessing quickly. He departed without need of the incantation and the entire event was concluded with rapid efficiency when Galdor seared the warrior's name and status upon Legolas' side just below Hatholvaen's.  
  
Three livid marks adorned the silvan's flesh and but one more soul remained to be summoned.  
  
Yet Galdor had no need to speak the words of command for Calargyll was already there and took possession of her sister's son gently. The eyes that opened to survey Glorfindel were now a vivd emerald green all alight with motes of gold and flecks of blue. The spirit they announced scanned the noble Vanya shrewdly before sending Galdor an equally probing inspection.  
  
"Calarlim, Tirn'wathiel and Naneth Edwen of Cuthenin, mae govannen. I commend your excellent upbringing of this silvan byr," said Legolas' new Guardian with a deeply respectful bow.  
  
"He was easy to raise for his spirit is strong and true, if perhaps too heavily endowed with stubbornness and impetuosity." Satisfied with his affirmation, Calarlim smiled at Galdor, gratitude displayed upon the youthful visage that was not her own. "I thank you for assuming the role of Tirn'wador, for his future is complicated and not all sorrows are behind him yet. His father's people are not initiates; they would not understand his needs. Speaking of which…"  
  
Legolas' naneth turned to favour Glorfindel with another piercing stare, and this was all the more disturbing since the face and form confronting him belonged to the young archer. The Vanya inhaled a steadying breath and met the cool green gaze evenly.  
  
"You will take care, Adonnen Ben (Re-born One), for his heart was untouched by such strong feelings before now. It is my dearest treasure I entrust to you, precious and irreplaceable. Born of my sister's body he may be, yet only one year did Legolas spend with her while I have watched over him for all the days since. He is my only child and I am loathe to give him up to you."  
  
"I do not seek to part him from you, Calarlim; ill-fate has done him this harm." Glorfindel protested gently.  
  
"This I know. Had I lived, he would still have found his way to you, only then he would maybe not be so vulnerable, so eager to fill an empty place in his soul. Yet I have no wish for him to go through all eternity lonely and unfulfilled. It is selfish for me to think I can supply enough love to give his life purpose, as he did mine. And mayhap it is not so different, for he filled the gap left at my sister's passing and I have never regretted the substitution." She sighed lightly and was silent as her eyes appraised the Vanya from Legolas' point of view.  
  
"What would you have me do to assure you of my honest intentions for Cuthenin?" asked Glorfindel, disconcerted by this candid assessment of his physique from the shy silvan's mother.  
  
"There is nothing you can say that will ease a mother's worries," retorted Calarlim. "It is an issue of trust, something Legolas has already granted to you fully or we would not be speaking now. Thus I will do so as well, yet with this warning: Should you mistreat him as you did your first love, I shall have Námo revoke his grace and summon you back to Mandos. There I shall be waiting."  
  
Glorfindel could not think of any words to utter in response to this threat and indeed his attention was immediately diverted from the remarks. Within his heart he felt Legolas struggling to pull back, seeking to re-enter his own body and be once more with his naneth. Alarmed, the Vanya sought to restrain him, yet knowing not the way to do this, and called for Galdor.  
  
"He seeks to go with her!" he shouted as the silvan's body began to jerk and twitch in his clasp.  
  
"Nay, relax and be at peace," the Sadron knelt beside them and calmly kneaded the reborn elda's straining shoulders. "She will not allow him to depart with her to Mandos. He only wants to be with her a last time. Let him go, Glorfindel."  
  
"I have my assurance, Glorfindel," spoke Calarlim from within her son's form. "Now that you have shared his soul, you could never hurt him. I see that even the thought of parting from him terrifies you, and few things have that power over your mind. Fear not; he comes to my call, for I would know the only experience of motherhood that was denied me: sharing one body with my child. Relinquish him, for he is not yours just yet."  
  
 _'Release me; I will not abandon you.'_  
  
The soothing promise of the silvan's thoughts rang through Glorfindel's brain and at this he relented, though his soul knew an emptiness he had never imagined possible the instant the warmth of Cuthenin's feä departed. He felt a surge of vitality course through the body pressed close to his chest and Legolas' arms tightened around his neck. A soft sigh accompanied the light burden of the archer's head reposing against his shoulder and Glorfindel could feel Cuthenin's smile where his lips barely brushed against his neck.  
  
What passed between mother and son was not divulged to either Tirn'wador or Faer Hebron, and not long did the two commune. Another deep sigh passed from Legolas' lungs, bearing a whispered farewell and Calarlim's soul as it fled.  
  
Seeing this, Galdor hurried to the brazier for the final brand, pressing the glowing ingot of Calarlim's seal upon Legolas' side above all the others, droning a final prayer for strength and healing of the young warrior's spirit as he did so.  
  
Back in his own skin, Legolas jerked violently at the searing agony of the burn and groaned, alert instantly, clutching onto Glorfindel as he struggled to pull himself up straight. His knees ached and his side throbbed hotly, but his heart was no longer broken. He pushed back to arms' length as they had been at the start of the ritual, permitting Galdor to apply the cooling salve, and raised triumphant eyes to Glorfindel's. Legolas smiled, a brilliant and dazzling expression of joy that he had not displayed since the loss of Calarlim.  
  
"Le Hanteän," he said softly and impulsively wrapped his arms tightly around his Faer Hebron's shoulders, drawing Glorfindel back into a breath-stealing embrace.  
  
"It is done," announced Galdor needlessly, smiling down upon the elves. "You may safely separate now."  
  
Over the silvan's shoulder, Glorfindel sent the elder a look indicative of his incredulous remonstrance. He squeezed the lithe body pressed against him, delighting in the sensation of their hearts beating in tandem. He had no intention of ever letting Cuthenin go again.  
  
<br><br>

This is all I intended to write on this story. Then I wrote more because people asked, but have never been all that pleased with the chapters that followed. So, I left it alone and unfinished. Since that is the case, this is a good place to stop for now. Thanks for reading. 


End file.
